


The Wolves and The Roses

by ofhighgarden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, M/M, Mace Tyrell is king, Pining, Political Alliances, Robb and Loras flirt with eachother a lot, Robb gets emo about Winterfell, Secret Relationship, Semi Canon-Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofhighgarden/pseuds/ofhighgarden
Summary: AU in which the Tyrells rule the Seven Kingdoms instead of the Baratheons/Lannisters.Robb agrees to marry Margaery to unite the Starks and Tyrells in order to give the Starks more military strength should the Boltons act on their threats of attacking Winterfell.





	1. Boy, now your life is back to front,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb Stark is awoken unusually early in the morning by his Father, who has some even more unusual news for Robb. Thus, Robb begins to feel the fading of his youth as new responsibilities spring forward.

Robb Stark was abruptly awakened by a knock on his bedroom door. He figured that whoever was knocking had been knocking for a while, because it was known beyond the gates of Winterfell, and probably all the way down to bloody Sunspear for that matter, that driving a wedge between a Stark and his sleep was no easy feat. _Nothing is so important that I have to be woken up at 5:30 in the morning_ , he considered absently to himself.

Regardless, something called, though Robb wasn’t sure if it was duty or just his little sister Arya after having lost an arrow, and the mystery disturber wasn’t going anywhere, so Robb mustered up all of the energy a human could at such a ludicrous time in the morning and dragged himself out of bed. On his ascent, he was confronted by the surreal blur between the worlds of the asleep and the awake that was often lurking around in the morning, but he put one foot in front of the other, and soon he was at the door. _If Theon Greyjoy is behind this door, Robb thought, he isn’t getting away with a meagre slap on the wrist_.

He fumbled around with the lock and pried the door open, and to his surprise, it was not Arya or Theon standing before him. Lucky them. No, it was Eddard Stark, his Lord father, so naturally, Robb was forced to let go of any plans for revenge he had been formulating. Anyway, his father didn’t look too pleased to be walking to the sound of the owls calling either, so Robb cast his annoyance aside.

Ned stared at his eldest son pitifully, and it was then that Robb knew he was going to find it very hard to keep his annoyance bottled. That was his father’s well-known, well-feared ‘we need to talk’ expression, and here it was, staring Robb in the face. _Is this because I forgot to take Arya’s sword back to Rodrik?_   The thought of another interrogation about honour and obligation or some other noble value was enough to make Robb wish he’d ignored the knocking. _It’s a wooden sword. She was hardly going to slice anyone’s goddamn head off_.

Ned took Robb’s lack of words as an invitation into the room. ‘You’re definitely a Stark.’ _Oh, great. He’s going for the family values angle this time_. ‘Just as well… Being that wint-' Robb rolled his eyes so far into the back of his head he was sure he’d only see darkness when he tried to open them again. He was even more concerned when he did open them and he was indeed surrounded by darkness, but that was a fleeting thought that had vanished the minute he remembered that it was indeed the dead of night. In his defence, Robb was not used to seeing anyone until he had seen the light of day first.

‘Winter is coming, I know, father. Judging by the breeze at this fragile time of morning anyone would think it was already here. What is it?’ Robb tried to sound as unnerved as he could, but his words were slurred. _Not my fault_ , he thought.

‘Alright. It doesn’t look much like any of us will be getting much sleep for a while, Robb.’ Ned grimaced, and Robb offered a raised eyebrow as a cue for his father to explain himself, because quite frankly, Robb couldn’t be bothered to figure things out for himself right now. ‘The King rides for Winterfell along with the Queen and their children. They’ll be here in less than a fortnight.’ That explains why Ned was up so early. Robb’s father was nothing if not an honourable man, and to a Stark, honour was a castle with a whole tower built for welcoming guests in the correct manner. And these were no regular guests. This was King Mace Tyrell, and his Queen Alerie, and though King Mace had always been a loyal friend of his father, Robb couldn’t help but wonder if the halls of Winterfell were too demure for the likes of the royals. Winterfell was a castle of safety and grace, and more importantly it was home to Robb and his family, but the Tyrells were known to surround themselves with extravagance. Winterfell was many things, but extravagant not. And when Robb looked up to meet his Father’s eyes, he watched the same qualms reflected into his own, and their eyes were locked in a war of worry, like a paradox of what-are-we-going-to-do-now. Eventually, Robb broke the silence because quite frankly, the stare off was far too dreary and was causing his mind to beckon him back into the land of the sleeping. And another thing; he still had one question.

‘Father,’ he began. Lord Stark snapped out of the trance he was in, and a simple nod of the head prompted Robb to continue. ‘I understand that this is very important for the whole household. You and Mother especially. But I fail to see why you couldn’t have waited until sunrise to tell me. And you look so weary, was there something else?’ He spoke with stability and strength, just as his father had taught him to.

‘Robb… I don’t want to lie to you, this visit is more than just a chance to.. Catch up with old friends. Jon Arryn died not a week ago, your Mother told me earlier. Do you know what that means?’ Ned enquired, his eyes never betraying Robb’s. The latter’s eyes widened for the first time since before he’d gone to sleep. _That was a shock_.

‘How did it happen? Father, I am sorry. I remember all of the tales you told me of him and what he did for you.’ _If Lord Arryn was half as clever as Father told me, King Mace will be in need of a new hand. And Jon Arryn was not an easy man to replace. He’s going to ask Father._ The notion was conflicting even for Robb, and he wasn’t even the one who could be leaving a home he’d been building for decades. _Calm down. He hasn’t even said it’s happening yet_.

‘The King’s letter said it was a fever. It took him very quickly, he wouldn’t have been in pain for long. But now that he’s gone there’s a particular seat on the King’s Council that needs to be filled.’ Robb had always marvelled at the way his Father always managed to remain stoic and unaffected by everything in front of he and his siblings. No doubt Ned had let his guard down for Lady Catelyn, his dear wife, and very obviously thanks to the mass of auburn curls he shared with her, Robb’s Mother. Despite the many similarities between the Lady Stark and the eldest of the Stark children, Robb was fair like Eddard where Catelyn was lenient. He was trying to follow his Father’s lead, yet he had no idea how he’d cope if he was in Father’s position.

‘He’s going to ask you to be Hand of the King.’ In spite of his best efforts, Robb’s voice came out as brittle as it had been when he was just a boy.

It was not the idea of his father being Hand of the King that scared him. The Tyrells of Highgarden had been the most loyal allies to the Starks since Robb’s father had been his own age. They were a trustworthy house, which Robb did not doubt for a second, but his father didn’t belong in King’s Landing. He was a man of the North, through and through. Robb could not imagine the walls of Winterfell without the man who commanded them. Wandering through the Godswood wasn’t something Robb wanted to do if he knew he wouldn’t find his Father in there, watching the blood from his sword, Ice, cascade into the abyss of black liquid which sat beneath the heart tree. He knew his Father always went to seek solace in the comfort of his old gods after a beheading so that he could cleanse his heart, soul and sword. Eddard Stark’s heart was strong and fatherly, yet solitary and free. He didn’t belong in King’s Landing, a city so swept up in greed and corruption that its problems almost outnumbered its citizens. And that was a rich statement.

Robb didn’t realise he’d been plunged into the land of the overthinking until his Father’s gravelly voice grounded him again. ‘Yes, Robb. It’s a very real possibility we need to be prepared for.’

 _He can’t refuse the King_ , the boy thought, but asked his father a dangerous question regardless. ‘And if he does ask you?’ Agitation was evident in Robb’s hesitant voice. The answer he’d receive would be anything but simple. Conflicting, perplexing, seven hells, even insulting, but never simple.

‘I can’t refuse the King. I’ll have to go, and that means I’ll be leaving home. If he does ask me to be his hand, I’ll have to go to King’s Landing and I’ll do my duty as it must be done. Do you understand what that means for you?’ Ned’s words were a knife in Robb’s heart. The feared and often avoided sinking feeling washed over him in dreadful, vengeful waves. Robb knew exactly what it meant for him.

‘It means I’ll be the Lord of Winterfell.’ And just like that, his words were daggers cutting through the soothing silence that lingered in the muted Northern air.

The Father chuckled, and so did the son, because laughter was the last thing either of them were expecting right now. Neither of them wanted to confront the truths they had both acknowledged yet not spoken, so they both stood there for a while, laughing and laughing again at how ridiculous the situation was, and for a while, Robb forgot that his father would have to leave him, his mother and all of his siblings behind. And Robb was going to be caught in the midst of it all. _Hilarious_.

The mess of misplaced laughter and unsaid words was scattered by Ned’s answer to Robb. ‘You’ll be _acting_ Lord of Winterfell. I’m not dead yet, tell the Boltons I’m sorry.’ Not a useful answer, but one that triggered another eruption of laughter from the Lord and the acting-Lord-to-be. So much so that there was another knock on the door, and Robb longed for a world where his Father had never brought his news to his chambers.

 _There’s no point in ignoring whoever wants to join this party now_. He complied with his thoughts and walked over to the door, and in walked Lady Catelyn, the Mother of House Stark. Her countenance was grave, though the light in her eyes still danced at the sight of her husband, whose expression was just as solemn. She flashed Ned a sympathetic smile, one that was reciprocated at once, and Robb felt his heart drown under the weight of the idea of his perfect family being taken apart.

‘Robb, do you know what is happening?’ His Mother’s voice was a welcome lullaby in the dark of night. _If only now was a time for resting. It seems that now an entire night’s slumber will be a mere memory_. The prospect was one that startled Robb, so he tried his hardest to let it sink to the back of his mind, and it did.

‘Father is leaving and I’m to be the acting Lord of Winterfell.’ It seemed almost impossible for him to be able to comprehend his own words, yet he breathed them out anyway. _The Starks will endure as we always have done_.

Before his Mother could speak, his Father wedged his way into the conversation. ‘There was something else, Robb.’ _Ah, great. What now?_

‘What is it?’ Robb urged, eager to know what else could possibly be going wrong.

‘Being a Lord comes with several responsibilities. Expectations. I was about your age when my older brother was betrothed to your Mother.’ Ned was hesitant. Robb could tell. Lady Catelyn glanced from Robb to his father, a cue for Lord Eddard to continue his delivery of the news that didn’t feel real.

A suspenseful silence floated around the three of them the way Robb imagined the ghost of an intruder to haunt a happy home.

‘King Mace mentioned that he would like to marry his daughter Margaery to one of my sons. After consulting with your Mother here, I’ve decided it’s the right thing to do. For the good of our family and for the good of Winterfell.’

Robb didn’t know how to take this news. Just this morning he’d been playing at being Kings with his three brothers, and now here he was, stood before the parents who had brought him into the world not even 16 years ago, being told that he was to marry a King’s daughter. It all felt surreal to Robb, but he knew what was expected of him. He wouldn’t be a boy forever, and winter was moving swiftly upon the North, whisking his youth away with it. _Oh how things had changed in the past hour. Rickon doesn’t have to deal with things like this. Why couldn’t I be born the youngest?_ Against his better judgement, he challenged his Father.

‘Why? Nothing could ever come between the bond you have with Mace, you said it yourself. Why marry me to a Tyrell when you could build an alliance with another noble house?’

Obviously Robb had missed something judging by the wry smiles that appeared on his mother and father’s faces. ‘What’s funny?’ He continued when he didn’t receive an answer.

‘Something you’ll learn when you’re older is that the strength of your alliances is more important than the amount of them. You could have a billion bannermen but if just one of them would betray you for a small sum of money, you might as well have no one. Now as you know, the realm isn’t stable. We’ve always had to fight to keep the North and I don't mean to frighten you, Robb, but thanks to the Boltons it's harder now than it has ever been. The support of the throne is the strongest we could hope for, and we need to preserve it as strongly as we can. There is no better way to make an alliance than through marriage. If you marry Margaery, and she bears you children one day, the alliance will stay strong through your children and through their children after that.’ Eddard Stark’s 37th name-day had come and gone moon’s turns ago, yet still he managed to captivate any audience that was pushed upon him with his honest words and inspiring endurance. The spellbound look on Robb’s face said it all- his father’s words had reached him, and in that moment Robb knew he had to fulfil his duty to the Starks, and to Winterfell and the North.

However much it hurt him to watch his boyhood wither away before his blue eyes, he surrendered to the betrothal.

‘Well then I’ll have to do it.’ His Father would be proud of him at least, this encounter had taught him that the truth wasn't always easy to verbalise. Ned seemed to recognise this, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder and smiling genuinely for the first time that morning. His Mother, on the other hand, had tears welling in her eyes. Crying was probably a common thing for any Mother to do at times like this - watching her firstborn son grow from a boy to a man would have been no easy task for a kind-hearted woman like Catelyn Tully. So he allowed himself to fall into his Mother’s embrace as he would have done when he was Rickon’s age, though now he had to bend down to match her height. He sank into her arms and she tightened her grip on his shoulders, and when Robb felt his Father’s arms envelop them both into a tight, protective hold, he made sure to savour the moment, for he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d have the opportunity to do it again.

‘You know, I’ve heard Margaery Tyrell has stolen hearts from Dorne to the Wall. You could do a lot worse.’ And then the embrace was halted by an outburst of laughter which threatened to send the entire population of Winterfell knocking at Robb’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that was the first chapter!!  
> i hope it wasn't too bad, this is my first upload on here. feel free to leave any feedback/criticism in the comments!!  
> thank you for reading,  
> -jess (@targreyjoyen on twitter lmao self-promo)


	2. Everything I say falls right back into everything,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb is a bundle of nerves on the day he is set to meet the woman he'll be marrying. When the Tyrells *finally* arrive, Robb is shocked to find that beauty seems to run through the whole family.

Today was one of great importance for the Stark family. In a bid for his son to match the striking splendour of the Tyrell guard, Robb’s father had deemed it appropriate for the young wolf to don his armour. Albeit Robb had never had to carry the weight of the armour’s intention onto a battlefield, and he was certain the modest sheathing would never compare to whatever King Mace and his sons were going to show up in upon their long-anticipated arrival, Robb felt like the Lord he would one day be. As much as he valued the security his Father’s role in realm as Warden of the North brought to he and his siblings, he’d often dreamt of the moment he’d charge into a battle on a courageous horse, Grey Wind at his side, and drive his sword through the hearts of his enemies. He’d be the hero, though Robb was sure that all of his brothers, and Arya, his ragged little sister, had all experienced this same phantasm. _Just because I’m getting married so young, doesn’t mean I have to give up all of my aspirations._ This glimmer of hope followed Robb over to the mirror, where he stood as tall as he could. He may have been stretching as much as his developing muscles would allow him, but he was unafraid to admit that he carried his Father’s effortlessly noble expression. His easy authority entwined with the charmingly good looks he acquired from his Mother’s family were sure to carry him far in life, his Uncle Benjen had once professed. In that moment, his mind drifted to Margaery Tyrell, and he hoped she’d agree with his uncle. But maybe his Uncle wasn’t right. Robb’s father had been quick to demolish any idea the boy might have had about allowing himself to coast by on the privileges he’d been born with and allowing other people to do all his work for him. Eddard Stark was dutiful, and luckily for the future of the North, Robb was too.

For a moment, he stood mightily before his own reflection. But before his ego could encompass his humility, he was blinded by a sudden flare of brazen light seeping from the sun to the windows of Robb’s tower bedroom. Wincing, Robb directed his train of thought to the rest of the day's tasks. He adjusted his breastplate and set out of the warmth of his chambers to confront the bite of the cold outside.

 _Nothing like the sobering sensation of feeling your boot settle into the familiar snow of the North. I am never more at ease than I am when trudging through the fresh firn of Winterfell_. Slightly less anxious to confront the day than he had been, the Young Wolf strode towards the grooming room, as his lady Mother had instructed him to do the night before. His entrance was announced by the clash of the wooden floor against the toughness of his jet black boots, which earned him the attention of Theon and Jon, his brothers. Though Robb was only bound through his Father’s blood to Jon, and bound not at all to Theon, they’d grown up together. All three of them. _They are mine own definition of my youth, of evenings spent charging around the courtyard when we should have been helping the servants in the kitchen, of Winterfell_. Robb dared not betray the fact that his appreciation for his best friends was primarily unspoken, but when they both sprang up from their seats to lock him in a rough hug, he knew they were equally as grateful to be in his company. What followed was the most pathetic playfight the grooming room of Winterfell had ever seen, and apparently it was so bad that Maester Luwin was forced to intervene.

‘Boys, however exciting today may be for you... I must remind you that there are many a sharp object in here.. and you are all without a shirt.’ The well respected man may be old, but he was still as able to make Robb, Jon and Theon comply with his (very rational) request as he had been when they were all younger. After the laughter of the four of them died, Jon Snow took his place in the grooming chair at Luwin’s urging, and his trademark gloom expression returned to his visage.

‘Look at him, the poor lad’s having his beloved locks torn away from him. What a shame it is!’ There was nothing Theon Greyjoy took more pleasure in than mocking people, and sometimes he had the unfortunate habit of taking the jokes too far, but for now, the whole of Winterfell were savouring their last moments in only each other's company before the arrival of the Southern Royals. Robb had always been grateful for the sheltering sense of community he’d always been protected by in Winterfell.

‘He’ll never love anyone more than he’s in love with his hair, oh and look, there it goes.’ And sure enough, the abundant curls of the night fell to the floor.

‘As amusing as this is I need you all to take a moment to appreciate the importance of staying groomed. Especially when you are hosting events such as we will be today. A beard may grant you the appearance of a man grown, but it also does a good job of making you seem far too ragged, too dismissive of your appearance. And if you’re stood looking like homeless men next to the likes of the Tyrells, well, it just might be that you’ll insult the Royals.’ Trust Luwin to interrupt the laughter with another life lesson. _Father has always enlisted the expertise of men like him, and Luwin is no exception. I wonder how long he’s been in our house’s service_.

Robb would have been lying if he was to say the idea of the betrothal not going ahead had crossed his mind, but who could blame him? Certainly not Jon, who was next to raise comment.

‘You know,’ he spoke while gaping in disbelief at his reflection, which was a startling confrontation for Jon now due to the recent slaughter of his treasured dark locks. ‘No matter how beautiful Father has painted Margaery to be, it’s times like this that I feel grateful to be a Snow. You won’t be seeing me married anytime soon.’

‘I don’t understand why you’re so against this idea of marrying the Princess. I’d gladly take your place if she’s as comely as your Father’s description.’ Theon countered. _Typical. All Theon ever thinks about is girls. I remember once we were at Deepwood Motte while Father had business to attend to with Lord Glover, and Jon and Theon and I had persuaded him to let us join him. The serving girls were pretty, the three of us had all agreed, but it was on that day when he was beguiled by a fair haired maid that I realised that Theon Greyjoy had no regard for his honour_. If Robb hadn’t been so anxious to meet his Wife-to-be and her family, perhaps he’d have retold the story to Theon, and perhaps they’d have playfought.

Instead, Robb’s mind drifted off to the point Theon had made.

In truth, he wasn’t so sure about why he had little faith in the the engagement plans. He understood that it would massively improve the security of the Stark’s claim to Winterfell should the Boltons find a way to create more trouble for them, and he’d accepted that King Mace Tyrell had no apparent reason to decline the proposition. But it just felt so final, like the sand of his youth was slipping through the hourglass where he waited, unable to do anything but wait until his new responsibilities suffocated him. Robb wasn’t like Theon, who like he’d said would have graciously accepted the betrothal. After all, Theon had grown up without the value of his Mother and Father’s nurturing, a thousand leagues from his true home at Pyke.

Robb recalled the nights years before Bran had had the accident when he’d sit in the great hall of Winterfell next to Jon and his Father, watching Arya and Bran locked in a clumsy battle of wooden swords, laughing until they all cried at how his youngest sister was always able to outsmart Bran. He recounted the evenings when he’d intrude on conversations between his Mother and Sansa which would end in Robb spinning both of them sporadically as if they were in the most magnificent ballroom any of them had ever seen. Memories of nights sat in front of the fire accompanied with everyone who was from home while they all relaxed, enchanted by the fables of Florian and Jonquil as they were recited effortlessly by singers who would travel to Winterfell from as far as Braavos came flooding back him, and Robb reached a bittersweet conclusion. Maybe he just wasn’t ready to trade the comfort he found in being young for the terrifying new prospect of starting his own family with a stranger.

But he didn’t tell Theon why the marriage daunted him so. Theon wouldn’t understand.

So he chuckled instead, and offered his audience a lie.

‘I’ve thought about nothing but the engagement all night.’ That part was not a lie. ‘And it could be so much worse. At least she’s not a Bolton.’ Judging by the volcano of hysterical laughter that followed, his cover story seemed to suffice for now. But the knowing glint in Jon’s eyes was unmistakeable to Robb, and surprisingly, it brought him a strange comfort that he wasn’t being entirely irrational in his fears. His eyes darted from Theon and Maester Luwin to meet Jon’s, which reflected back at him with such sympathy that Robb found himself smiling wryly at his half-brother, who returned the gesture of gratitude.

‘Robb, take a seat. I’m afraid it’s time to get rid of that impressive beard you’ve been holding on to. Come on,’ croaked Luwin, and Robb obeyed.

The blade scraped away the auburn hairs that clung to his jaw, and the irony was not lost on Robb as it dawned on him that surely, with the fact that he’d probably be married by the year's end, he ought to keep the mark of his manliness in favour of the soft baby face that Bran and Rickon would be holding onto for years yet.

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Robb found his Mother where he knew he would, sat beneath the mirror atop her drawers. He offered a soft knock on the door to alert her to his presence, and when she called him in, he entered his parents’ chambers with a sense of melancholy about him. He realised that it was not just his Mother in the room, but Sansa, his younger sister too, who was sat in front of his Mother having her hair pushed and pulled into an intricate style that was far beyond Robb’s comprehension.

‘Mother, Sansa,’ he greeted them as a Lord would, kissing both of them softly on the cheek. They both returned smiles towards him while he sat down on the canopy bed.

‘You’ve finally gotten rid of that awful beard, I see! If only your Father would do the same.’ That remark came from his Mother, who Robb knew to be one of the many people of Winterfell who had protested against his beard.

‘I’m a man grown, Mother. What better way to have said so than by growing a beard to match Father’s?’ It was good for Robb to soften his apprehension by jesting with those he held dear, he’d decided.

‘Or, by marrying the daughter of another noble house? A royal one, at that,’ his Lady Mother countered, while Sansa’s face deflated with jealousy. When news of the betrothal had reached his little sister, she’d stormed off, and everyone knew why. Since Sansa had heard the tales of Florian and Jonquil, she’d been enamoured with the idea of marrying a prince, or perhaps a noble knight. So it was understandable to Robb that Sansa would want to be betrothed to Loras Tyrell, who had apparently gifted her a red rose after a tourney victory a year prior to the announcement of Robb’s engagement. Robb couldn’t pretend he hadn’t wondered why Sansa and Loras couldn’t have been in his and Margaery’s place instead, but when he’d asked his father about it, Ned had simply said that Sansa was too young, and that it was time for Robb to face up to the expectations that would be had of him once he was a man grown. Robb had tried to offer his apologies to Sansa, but she was hearing none of it, and hadn’t spoken to he or his Father for a week afterwards. _Oh to have the same blind excitement as Sansa_ , Robb mused, but didn’t allow himself to be wrapped up in the web of what-ifs.

‘My sweet sister, one day you’ll be married to a man worthy of your love, but for now you have a life to live. You are still so young, live freely as I now wish I had at your age.’ When Sansa rolled her eyes, Robb and his Mother snickered, because they both knew all too well how they both would have rejected that advice when they had been just short of their fourteenth name-days. When the laughter had died down, Lady Catelyn continued to fiddle with Sansa’s hair, which was looking increasingly elegant as the minutes passed. The tight updo served well to compliment Sansa’s beauty, and if Robb’s Mother had taught him anything about gallantry, it had been to keep his negative thoughts regarding a woman’s appearance to himself, and to let her know of those that were positive. So he did.

‘If it’s any consolation, you look a rare kind of beautiful this morning, dear sister. The Knight of Flowers will be entranced with your beauty even if he cannot marry you yet.’ Robb knew he was right to take his Mother’s advice when the two women began to smile; Sansa because of the sentiment behind Robb’s comment, and Lady Catelyn because her firstborn son had grown up into a courteous young groom-to-be right before her eyes. In fact, Robb swore he saw her eyes pooling with tears when he first entered the room.

‘You look gorgeous, both of you,’ Catelyn sniffed. _I was right then_ , the Young Wolf surmised. ‘Both of you are so grown up. Robb, you look so handsome in your armour. You remind me of your Uncle Edmure when he was your age.’ The two eldest of Lady Catelyn’s children were shocked by the fact that their Mother seemed as if she was about to cry at the surrealness of it all, and in a bid to still his Mother’s sadness, Robb took her delicate hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. _I suppose all this change is bringing upset to more people than just me_.

‘Oh, Robb?’ The question came from Catelyn, who he replied to with a raised eyebrow. ‘Your Father wanted to see you before the royal arrival.’ This was no surprise to Robb. Lord Stark was always sure to make certain that everything was in order when Winterfell would be receiving visitors. Today in particular, Robb had seen no shortage of servants darting from tower to tower, rushing desperately to try and make Winterfell look as splendid as the castles the royals would be used to. Of course, this was no simple task given that the Tyrells hailed from Highgarden, which was a sight so captivating that it had been named the most beautiful castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Still, you had to admire the smallfolk of Winterfell for their determination. ‘Then I’d better be on my way. It’s been a pleasure, Mother, Sansa.’ Robb stood up from his comfortable position, and began to make his way to the door.

‘Your Father is in the godswood, my son.’ Catelyn called, hands still busy on the copper and chestnut masterpiece embedded on Sansa’s head.

‘Just as I’d expect from him on a day like today. I’ll see you both when the Tyrells arrive.’ And after flashing a kind smile at his Mother and sister, he retired from the warmth of his parent’s chambers, and back into the bite of the falling snow that only the people of the North were used to.

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On his way to the Godswood, Robb found himself taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of the place he called home. Even for such a demure castle, Winterfell looked splendid. His father had been working tirelessly ever since news of the King’s departure from King’s Landing had reached him, so much so that he’d barely had time to see Robb or any of his siblings in the days leading up to the royal arrival, but his hard work was evident through the red roses that hung from each strong tower visible from the court, a tribute to the sigil of house Tyrell. The walls had been scrubbed, and they looked almost pristine, even if the centuries had gnawed away at them. There was fresh straw in the stables and the usual smell of manure had been replaced by the unmistakeable scent of the freshest red roses, no doubt another homage paid to the Tyrells. When Robb reached the point in his journey to the godswood when he saw more forest than granite, he arrived at the conclusion that no matter how much anyone attempted to glorify Winterfell, it would always been the same home to him, the same place he’s spent his whole life in. He spared a thought for Margaery Tyrell, who would soon be living there with him in a place miles away from her home. _Has Sansa realised that if she were to marry Loras, she’d be living in the South away from her family? That probably didn’t matter to her if she got to marry a knight, and besides, she’d love Highgarden in all of its floral glory_.

Robb never felt more at home than he did when he’d venture into the godswood. The godswood was unmistakably Winterfell, and he feared for any strangers who might try to feel as if they belonged there. He wondered if his Mother had felt like an intruder when she arrived in the North, and made a mental note to ask his Father how to make his own bride feel like Winterfell was hers.

It took a few minutes of walking through the maze of red and white until Robb located his Father, who was sat beneath the heart tree. He’d had to call to his Ned to alert him of his arrival. When his Father looked up, he took in the outfit he’s asked Robb to wear. ‘Robb,’ he began. ‘The armour compliments you well. You look a man grown, more than I did when I was your age.’ That meant something to Robb, it was a bittersweet compliment, one that evoked from him both pride and a yearning for his youth.

‘Thank you Father. Do you think we’re ready for today?’ While he could only find optimism in his Mother when he asked her the same question nights ago, he knew he could always count on his Father to be frank with him. That’s where you could really see that Jon and Robb were Ned’s sons.

‘We’ve done as much preparation as we could have done. There’s nothing more we can do now than hope, and pray that they all feel welcome in our halls, but Mace Tyrell has been my closest friend since I was your age. If he feels comfortable here in our presence, his children are like to follow.’ _Diplomatic, as always_. Robb took a seat next to his father.

‘Father, on my way over to see you, I had a thought.’ He glanced at his surroundings and admired the way the elegant scarlet of the velvet leaves intertwined with the purity of the white tree trunks.

‘Tell me,’ Ned commanded, thankful for the opportunity that his eldest son was sharing his musings with him.

‘The godswood is the most Stark thing about Winterfell. I was just thinking about how Mother may have felt when she first arrived at Winterfell, and it occurred to me that she must have felt so alone, the only Tully in a stronghold that is entirely Stark. How do I make sure that my bride doesn’t feel like an outsider?’ All the while Robb was explaining his concerns, Ned didn’t interrupt. Instead, he listened whole heartedly, as he did every time any of his family would seek his help. In fact, he always looked pleased that his children felt that they could depend on him. Ned altered his position to face Robb with more ease.

‘I’ll tell you a story.’ Ned said, with a slight smile threatening to break into an unmistakable grin. ‘Your Mother was never meant to marry me. She’d been betrothed to my brother, Brandon, but after the siege of King’s Landing took Brandon away from us, I was the next option. So we got married, but while your Mother had met my brother, we had to marry in a hasty bid to unite our houses. We married out of duty, for the good of the realm, as you and Margaery will do. We’d never met before yet here we were, man and wife, unable to get to know each other before I had to go off and fight Robert Baratheon’s war for him. It’s funny you mention this now, after me and your Mother had been discussing it only nights ago. Anyway, she did feel like an outsider. She’d told me that she’d never felt like more of an outsider than when she visited these very woods.’ Ned had been recalling the anecdote with a youthful breeze in his voice.

‘So how did you make her feel at home?’ While Robb was interested in the story, as of yet he failed to find his answer.

‘Love didn’t find your Mother and I right away. Duty came first. But when Robert fell, and Mace took the throne, I returned here, to our home months later, and found her talking to Old Nan with such an ease that I’d forgotten she hadn’t lived here her whole life. If Margaery is anything like her Father, she’ll have stolen the hearts of all of Winterfell before she’s stolen yours. It’ll take time, Robb, but be patient.’ Ned finished his story and Robb became more in awe with how his parents had always managed to endure. _I hope I can make Margaery as comfortable with me as my Mother is with Father_.

‘So you think I’ll have nothing to worry about?’ Robb enquired, full of hope. His Father laughed, blunting Robb’s hope.

‘Ahh, you won’t get away with it that easily. No honourable man is able to marry someone they’ve never met without becoming riddled with worry. And Margaery is a princess, she’s royalty. It’s a lot to live up to and I won’t have you getting complacent. But Robb?’ _Oh_ , Robb thought. _Marriage is no simple road and I haven’t even met the bride yet_.

‘Yes, Father?’ Robb returned, eager to hear his Father’s advice.

‘This godswood is not the most Stark thing about Winterfell. We are the most Stark thing about Winterfell. Be courteous to your wife, give yourself to her, and she will do the same. You can’t build a happy marriage with any set ingredients. You have to be willing to share yourself with her, and if she is comfortable with you, she’ll soon settle into her new home. I know you have it in you, Robb.’ Ned spoke effortlessly and openly, which Robb knew was not an easy thing for a guarded man like his Father.

‘Thank you, Father. That means a great deal to me, more than you know.’ Robb spoke truthfully. He’d always found solace in these conversations with his Father, and though he may have carried more of his Mother’s appearance, his heart was all Stark.

‘Always a pleasure, son.’ Ned replied.

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. There was no awkwardness, only comfort. They were like this for a while, until the older Stark spoke.

‘Have you seen Bran and Arya today? They’re the pinnacle of excitement. I’m surprised Bran hasn’t fallen off his horse at the speed they’re both going.’ Ned offered a thought that made them both laugh.

‘It’ll be good for Bran to have Willas around. He never was quite the same after the accident. Maybe he’ll show him that even the way he is, he can still be a great man.’ Robb had heard of tales of Willas’ wisdom. When he was younger, he’d practically idolised him. But then when Oberyn Martell had crippled Willas’ leg in a tourney, the eldest of the Tyrell children had to turn his attention towards managing Highgarden in his Father’s absence. And from what Robb had heard, he’d done a splendid job of it.

‘To be sure. And Arya has spoken of nothing but Garlan the Gallant, I’m sure.’ Robb’s Father had been too busy to see the various feelings spread throughout the Stark household, and as the soon-to-be acting Lord of Winterfell, Robb had taken it upon him to manage his younger siblings with the help of his Mother. _Oh how I regret agreeing to that. I may be getting married soon, but children are going to have to wait. Sorry Margaery_.

The Quiet Wolf and the Young Wolf were interrupted by Maester Luwin, who brought with him the news the whole household had been waiting for.

‘My Lord, the King and his household are approaching the gate.’ The old man had fulfilled his duty in warning Lord Eddard of the impending royal arrival, but still Robb felt his heartbeat pick up, and he had no doubt that his Father had felt the same thing.

‘Thank you Luwin.’ Ned nodded towards the old Maester who has started to walk, or rather limp in his case, back to the courtyard, and Ned turned to Robb. ‘I suppose we’d better go and greet our King, then. And quickly, if we have any hope of getting there before one of the little ones ruins something, we had better be quick.’ And with that, they rose to their feet, and sauntered back to meet their guests.

Walking beside his Father, Robb almost looked taller than him, and he was still growing. He looked every inch a Lord in his armour, though the butterflies that contaminated his heart and stomach were restless. _I’d appreciate it if I could remain composed to meet my betrothed_. He’d wanted to shout it out in a hopeless bid to rewind time, but instead he kept it to himself as he knew his Lord Eddard would have done, and held his head high. _I just hope no one can hear the beat of my heart out loud. Or else Margaery will take me for a fool and I just might be the death of this alliance_. The notion of what might have happened if Robb did ruin the betrothal was enough to make him chuckle, and despite his intentions, Robb’s Father did notice. He halted, causing Robb to do the same, and turned to face him in what became a face-off of the two wolves.

The real direwolves were in the kennels, and while all seven of the Starks of Winterfell, and Jon Snow too, had all taken desperate measures in attempting to calm the symphony of barks and snarls, they’d eventually had to leave the five wolves in the kennels. After a matter of hours, they’d ceased their hopeless calls for an escape. But then, after Catelyn had let little Rickon out of her sight for mere seconds, he had found his way over to the kennels and had begun to mimic the call of the direwolf so that Grey Wind, Ghost, Lady, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggydog had all followed suit. The look of sheer panic on Lady Catelyn’s face when she heard the sound of the first howl was not one Robb was like to forget any time soon. Wild as his wolf, is little Rickon, Robb had found hilarity in the situation, if not a little despair, but he still did his duty as Rickon’s elder brother and his Father’s heir and scolded the youngest Stark. As one may expect from a three year old, there were tears. But Robb knew how to end the incessant streaming of his youngest brother’s tears. All he had to do was remind him of the approaching arrival of Mace Tyrell, or the fat king, as their Father had made the mistake of calling him in front of Rickon once. Much to the despair of Sansa, Robb, Catelyn and Ned, the name had stuck with Rickon, and he would only refer to Mace as The Fat King. The older Starks could only hope to the old gods and the new that King Mace Tyrell would never hear the rather rude nickname that had been bestowed upon him by the toddler.

So there they stood, The Young Wolf and the Quiet. Ned examined Robb’s smile, and in spite of the anticipation that echoed off Ned, his solemn expression broke into a grin to contend with Robb’s.

‘That’s it. You keep smiling, women like that.’ Ned’s advice may well have been in jest, but still Robb took it to heart. He allowed the laugh he let out to spread across his face with no restraint.

When the Lord and his eventual successor emerged from the godswood, they did so with beaming faces. The latter had no idea how the former was feeling, Ned always made sure to hide his emotions from his children, especially in testing times like this. But Robb’s heart was fluttering as it had never done before, he was terrified even if his face hid it well.

At the sound of Rodrik Cassel’s call to open the gates, Robb and Ned raced towards the rest of the family, who were already lined up to greet the royal family, save for Arya, whom, after scanning the crowd of Winterfell’s people who were perfectly poised to catch a glimpse of the Great King Mace Tyrell, Robb could find no trace of. That made him laugh too, because of course, the one occasion that needed to be perfect wouldn’t be. He had too much to think about with Margaery, though, so he allowed himself the relief of letting his Father deal with his estranged sister.

He took his place next to Sansa and his Mother, and chuckled again when he heard his Father ask his Mother of Arya’s whereabouts. Sansa did not find the situation so humourous. ‘She always has to ruin _everything_.’ She scowled. Robb, however, didn’t blame Arya. _If only I could run away too_.

As if the sigh that resulted from Lady Catelyn was a cue, Arya gallivanted towards the place she was meant to be, hustling and bustling her way into her place betwixt Bran and Sansa, the latter of whom was sat atop a wagon filled with straw. It wasn’t ideal, but since he’d been crippled there wasn’t much else that could be done. Lord and Lady Stark couldn’t exactly hide Bran as they had done with Jon Snow, who stood further back in the crowd, almost unnoticeable. If you weren’t actively looking for him, that is. Ned Stark’s illegitimate son was unmistakably of Stark blood.

‘Arya! There you are at last! Where have you been?’ Lady Catelyn expelled a sigh of relief from her body. _Perhaps now that everyone is where they need to be, everything will be fine, providing that Rickon keeps his innocent little mouth shut. Ha! Wishful thinking_.

‘I wanted to get a proper first look at the King!’ Arya whelped in a bid to defend her inquisitive nature. At her comment, Robb laughed. Just as well, given that the amount of seconds until he met his bride was swiftly declining, meaning that the smile on his face he was determined to keep for Margaery was becoming overpowered by an anxious frown.

‘Well you’d better be grateful that they’ll be arriving here in seconds. If they weren’t, your Father and I would have had to send you to your chambers.’ Lady Catelyn scolded, and out of the corner of his eye, Robb swore he saw a smirk plaster itself across Sansa’s face. He turned his head to look at Jon, and wasn’t surprised to find him trying to stifle a laugh. _Everything is as it should be. We’re all smiling, even Sansa, and all the gods know what a struggle it is to get a laugh out of her_.

The sobering sound of the gates opening caused all seven of the Starks to straighten their backs, synchronously. They all made their last second adjustments; Sansa tucking a stray copper hair behind her ear, Rickon standing on the tips of his toes in a desperate attempt to appear more man than toddler, Robb straightening the armour that subjugated his right shoulder, and exuding a puff of steam from his mouth.

The royal carriage seemed to travel through the gates in slow motion, and all the time it took for it to get there, the silence was filled by the rhythmic, monotonous trotting of the royal white horses. Robb did not remove his eyes from the vehicle, even after others horses followed it. When the horses finally stalled, a young boy, probably a squire of Bran’s age, emerged from the gold and emerald chariot and stepped out onto the snow of Winterfell, leaving the door open, ready for whoever might be stepping out next. _Already the Tyrells look like outsiders with such a vibrant means of travel, and they haven’t even stepped out the bloody carriage yet_.

Finally, King Mace Tyrell arose from the litter in all of his glory. And Father had not been joking when he’d said there had been a lot of him. It took everything in Robb’s power to refrain from turning to look at Rickon, though he could see in his peripheral that his little brother’s face had lit up into a mischievous glow. To his right, he witnessed his Lady Mother repress the same internal struggle, though she was probably trying to make certain that Rickon wouldn’t say anything rather than for the purposes of humour as Robb was.

There stood the Great King, Robb’s future Father-by-law, clad in a doublet of viridian velvet, the front of it lined with the signature Tyrell rose, aurulent in colour. Atop his kingly doublet, Mace Tyrell attired himself in a cloak of a particular shade of green that Robb was sure would match the fir trees that Winterfell was known for. _Subtle_ , Robb thought, smiling at the effort the King had made in adopting the Northern life. _Subtle, but touching. We have placed roses in our court, and the Roses are wearing the colour of our firs_.

His Grace awaited his Queen, who was next to emerge from the cart. The Queen herself wore a silken dress to match her husband’s clothing, and Robb was certain he saw Sansa’s mouth gape open in shock, and probably envy, at the beauty of Queen Alerie and her garments. Hanging loosely from the Queen’s neck was a pendant of gold, with a grey quartz centre, which was probably to represent her status as a member of house Hightower, but also made a nice match to the direwolf sigil of house Stark. To combat the cold bite of the North, she wore a fur cloak, cinereal in colour to match her necklace. Though her name had remained Hightower, she used a similar Tyrell rose brooch to those that covered her husband’s doublet as a clasp for her cloak. Despite having not spoken a word to them yet, Robb observed how well put-together the Tyrells were as Mace planted a tender kiss on Alerie’s cheek. The King took her hand and began to lead her towards the Starks, but Alerie objected for the moment.

‘Wait, my love. We must wait for Loras first!’ She even spoke with a song in her voice. 

And then Ser Loras strode out of the chariot’s proximity, in all of his knightly glory. Loras was a knight of the kingsguard, and his flowing white cloak clung to his armoured shoulders. He was more slender than Robb would have expected from the Knight of Flowers, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in speed, as he sauntered forwards to join his parents. His breastplate was of the finest steel, and it was embellished with three golden roses as a reference to his status as Mace’s third son, but Robb had no doubt that it was also because the Tyrells were apparently as proud of their sigil as the Starks were of their own direwolf emblem. His tawny-hued hair cascaded in free-flowing ringlets from his head down to his shoulders, and his lace-tied doublet was of a lighter green than his Father’s but still of a rich woollen quality. His black breeches were tucked into his pristine white boots, although the breeches were, for the most part, covered by chainmail armour so fine that Robb now regarded his own fortification as inadequate. Loras was a handsome knight, it was plain to see, and it was a pity, Robb thought, that Loras’ membership in the kingsguard meant he’d be unable to take a wife and make beautiful children that shared his divine golden eyes.  _ Unbelievable _ , Robb had decided.  _ I haven’t even seen my betrothed yet and I’m already intimidated. Is it possible for a family to be so comely? Even the King is handsome, though fat he may be.  _ The trio of Tyrells made their way over to greet the Starks, leaving a frail yet fiery Olenna Tyrell, the Queen Mother, to curse at her son for not waiting for her. Her slightly loud profanities made all of the Starks laugh, even if his Mother did look somewhat wary of her. Robb was certain Arya had found a new best friend in the elderly lady, judging by the volume of the laugh she omitted. Olenna strutted over to her son.

‘Curse you for not waiting for me.’ She wasn’t amused, anyone could see, so the Starks repressed their laughter as best they could, though it didn’t work very well for the younger members of the family. 

And then, the moment was there. His Grace stood face to face with his oldest companion, Eddard Stark. A few moments of silence passed by until little Rickon ‘whispered,’ if you could call it that, ‘it’s the Fat King!’ to Arya. Robb thought he saw all of the colour drain from his Father’s face, making him look as frostbitten as the snow that lay beneath them all. Trying to will the tension to an end, Robb grit his teeth, hard. But an unexpectedly loud laugh exploded from Olenna Tyrell’s lungs, and Mace followed suit. Soon, everyone was laughing again, and Mace locked Ned in a hug, slapping his back as middle-aged men often did when hugging. They withdrew from each other’s grip, and Robb’s Father exercised his courtesy by bowing before his King.

‘Your Grace,’ Ned started. Mace’s curled moustache twitched as he beamed, and it was almost comedic. ‘It’s an honour that you should think to our humble land. Welcome to Winterfell.’ The two old friends shook hands.

‘It’s a pleasure to be here, Ned. In testing times, the best thing to do is seek your most trusted friends, and you are mine. It is great to see you looking so well!’ Mace professed, the enthusiasm in his voice evident. Mace Tyrell was right next to Robb now, greeting Lady Catelyn. He could smell him, and against the chilling scent of the cold, the King smelt of roses and wine of the Arbor. 

‘Cat, my Lady, you look beautiful as always.’ the King supported his compliment by blessing Catelyn’s cheek with a peck, and Robb’s Mother returned the gesture. Now, it was time for Robb to meet his Father-by-law-to-be. _ Ah, what have I got to lose _ . He thought, and heard himself begin to speak:

‘Your Grace,’ he began, following the endearment with a bow. ‘I hear we're to be family one day,  and I would just like to tell you what an honour that is to me. Thank you. I can’t wait to meet your daughter, I’ve heard tales of her beauty, but I am sure they don’t do her justice.’ In response to Robb’s drabble, the King called to Ned, who looked overwhelmed by the spirit of his current conversation with the tiny Queen Mother. 

‘Your Grace?’ Ned replied, anxious as to what this was about.

‘You have a fine son here. Looks the part in armour, and speaks with a humble tongue. He is a credit to your house, and I would rather have no one other than him to marry my daughter.’ 

‘Thank you. We’re very proud of Robb here at Winterfell.’ That was all Ned could say before he was forced back into conversation with Olenna, the Queen of Thorns.

Mace turned his attention back to Robb, who was beaming.

‘You are very kind to have said that, Your Grace. Thank you.’ Robb smiled.

‘It is no trouble. I speak only truly, and I know Margaery will be smitten with you.’ the King returned.

_Gods be good_ , Robb breathed a sigh of relief when Mace moved on to Sansa, and Queen Alerie stood before him.  _ That went well _ . The prospect of marrying into the royal house didn’t seem to be so daunting to Robb anymore, or it didn’t, until Margaery emerged from her chariot. And Gods be good, she looked beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that was chapter two. another Robb POV, and the next one will be too, but chapter four is going to be a Sansa POV bc I love Sansa so much! also this might seem a little slow starting but ive gotta establish an equilibrium rn, so the drama will start soon I promise.  
> I hope you guys liked this chapter, and I welcome any critisicm you might have.  
> my twitter is @targreyjoyen for anyone interested !!  
> -jess


	3. Isn't it ironic,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb finally meets his betrothed, the realm-renowned beauty of Margaery Tyrell, and her Knightly brother, the charmingly elusive Ser Loras Tyrell.

 

Assisted by her knightly brothers, Garlan the Gallant and Willas, Mace’s heir, Princess Margaery Tyrell stepped out of the chariot with such grace that Robb had to remind himself he wasn’t watching a ballet performance. In fact, he found it rather difficult to focus on what Queen Alerie was saying, and how could he when his betrothed was stood just seconds away, looking like the most beautiful woman the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen?

A melodic observation from the Queen broke Robb out of his trance, and hesitantly, he drew his eyes back to his Mother-by-law to be.

‘I see you are quite taken with my daughter.’ _That’s one way of putting it, your grace._ Upon the realisation that the Queen knew that Robb hadn’t fully been paying attention, Robb’s face flushed as red as the roses scattered around the courtyard.

‘Forgive me, Your Grace. It seems I was distracted because she looks so beautiful, Your Grace, and I must say, so do you. It will be an honour to be part of your family someday.’ _Courtesy, Robb_. He reminded himself as he desperately tried to hide the fact that he was way in over his head with a smile. _Just as Father suggested_.

‘And you too. But don’t look so terrified! Our dear Margaery is not as intimidating as she looks. You need not fear.’ When Alerie presented Robb with a reassuring smile, he was sure the woman was a goddess. _Cersei Lannister wasn't half as gracious as this when she cursed our castle with her presence._

 

Last year had been eventful for the Starks, after all that trouble with the Lannisters and Boltons. But Robb was too anxious now to be dwelling on that as well, so he steered his mind, and eyes, over to Margaery Tyrell once the Queen had moved on to Sansa. But before long, his sights of his beautiful bride-to-be were replaced by the Queen of Thorns, aka King Mace’s Mother, aka Olenna Tyrell. Robb would never admit it, but although Olenna humoured him, she intimidated him too. So when her withered, yet regal face, he had panicked in finding what to say.

‘Your Grace, it is a pleasure to meet you. Might I say how radiant you look today? How was the journey from King’s Landing?’ Robb hoped to all of the gods that the woman couldn’t sense his fear, and he bowed to her, taking her fragile hand and

‘Thank you dear. I travelled from Highgarden because I can’t stand the company in King’s Landing, but the journey was tedious, long, and full of pointless remarks from my son all the same. It seems that some things are inescapable.’ The Queen of Thorns had not received her name for any old reason, it would seem.

‘Yes, I can agree with that. I hope our halls aren’t too plain for you? Winterfell has suited me well throughout my life, though I understand why it may not appeal to everyone.’ Robb observed, looking around at the array of differently sized towers surrounding them all.

‘Oh, it suits me very well. When Mace delivered to me the news of your betrothal to Margaery, I had feared that you’d be a perverse, incapable little fellow. But now I am speaking to you I can see that you are as gallant as my grandson, Garlan, and perhaps as wise as his brother, Willas.’ _No mention of Loras. Does she think her youngest grandson inferior to her others?_

‘You and Margaery will make a spectacular couple, and your children will be beautiful!’ She continued. Robb had not been expecting that. By the end of her sentence, Olenna Tyrell had raised her arms into the crisp Northern air, as if to profess to the Gods how grateful she was for the blessing of a decent husband for Margaery. Her kind brown eyes had widened to such an extent Robb didn’t think was possible, but he took her compliment to his heart anyway, despite how wild she had just looked.

 

 _If they think I’m going to be such a match for Margaery, then why am I unable to speak to her? She, Garlan and Willas have disappeared._ And then Robb noticed that his Father was no longer stood beside his Mother. _Father’s probably showing them to their chambers. They’ve had a long journey, after all._ Robb trusted his Father well, so the idea that the Tyrells he had not yet acquainted himself with were with Ned put Robb’s mind slightly at ease, though he was still anxious to meet his bride.

 

Before he could offer his thanks to Margaery’s Grandmother, another jovial voice joined the conversation, and it was none other than Loras Tyrell, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

 

‘Ah, Robb! I do apologise for my Grandmother, she does have the habit of getting a tad carried away sometimes.’ And with that, the youngest of the Tyrell princes extended his hand towards Robb as means of a greeting, and the Queen of Thorns took the hint to move onto the next member of the Stark covey; Sansa.

Whilst Ser Loras’ hands had been encased by white woollen gloves previously, it seemed that he’d now removed them, revealing a surprisingly small pair of hands, one of which Loras was still holding out as an invitation to take in his own. So Robb did, and all the while his own cerulean eyes never left Loras’ honeyed ones.

 

‘It’s no trouble, Your Grace. I’m just honoured to be hosting your family. Ser Loras, your armour is quite a sight. The gold of it makes my own armour look as if an apprentice smith forged it.’’ Robb said, truthfully. The duality of the lives of the two young men was not lost on Robb,who noted that Loras’ shining armour, which was a complete representation of his life as a Prince, was an unadorned contrast to Robb’s rusted armour, which coincided with his life in the brutal, unforgiving North. _So, we’re from entirely different worlds._ It was an evanescent though, one so liminal that it should have meant nothing; but Robb couldn’t help but wonder if the Wolf and the Rose were too mismatched for his marriage to Margaery to work. _Calm down. Her own family have said she’ll like you, and they know her better than anyone._

 

‘Drop the Ser, Robb. You can call me Loras, I reserve the Ser as a means of fear-mongering upon those I mistrust.’ The Knight of Flowers’ voice was laced with charm, and it was evident in his smile too.

 

Next to him, Robb could see Sansa blushing thanks to a compliment from Olenna.

‘Oh my, you’re a pretty one as well!’ She had called, much to the disdain of Arya, who had never had such things said of her.

 

‘My Father told me you might like to hear some advice regarding your impending acting Lordship. You’ll have to rely on Garlan for any advice on marriage, Father won’t find me a bride because of this,’ Willas declared, gesturing to his crippled leg.

Robb was slightly unsure about whether his duties as a Lord meant that he should have been showing the royal concierge the rest of the castle, so he seeked enlightenment on the matter from none other than the heir to the iron throne.

 

‘Do you think I should show you all to your chambers? Father and Mother usually do that, but if I’m correct, they’re already giving your siblings the grand tour.’ The Heir to Winterfell spoke with laughter in his voice, causing the Heir to the Iron Throne to smile. His cheeks were dimpled, adding to the natural charm Willas radiated flawlessly.

 

‘My father used to pull that trick all the time before I returned to Highgarden as its protector. Your Father is testing you, that’s all. Making sure you’re ready. Come on, just tell us you’d like to show us to our chambers. That will satisfy my Father well enough.’ Willas encouraged with a dependable smile.

Regardless of Willas’ support, Robb had fear well rooted in his eyes as he addressed his audience.

‘My King, my Queen, Prince Willas, Lady Olenna, Your Grace,’ he started. ‘Allow me to escort you all to your chambers, if it please you.’

The Prince looked on, proud. King Mace rose from where he had been kneeling to talk to Rickon, and from the joyous looks on the faces of both the King and the Wild Wolf Pup, the latter’s earlier naive mockery of the former had been overlooked. _Phew. Rickon won’t have lead us into an unwinnable war just yet, then._

 

‘That would please me very much, Lord Robb,’ said the King, laying an emphasis on the word ‘Lord.’ Robb didn’t need to reply for the King to know that his use of the title meant a great deal to him. So, in lieu of an answer, he ambled towards the door to the chambers that the guests usually stayed in. It seemed that Arya, Bran and Rickon were no longer interested in witnessing Robb’s attempt at fulfilling his Lordly duties, so they had seemingly embarked on whatever make-believe quest Bran had dreamed up last. That left Robb commanding a troupe of royals with only Sansa’s support, and though he loved his eldest sister, he suspected she was only there for one thing. And when she came swanning up to walk beside Loras, Robb knew his theory had been proven.

‘Ser Loras! It is such an honour to see you!’ He heard her say. It was easy to tell that she was excited, and if Robb was being honest, he’d say it was quite comical.

‘Lady Sansa, how good it is to finally meet you. Father had said you were growing up to be a beautiful young woman. I see now that he was correct in his assumption. And please, there is no need call me Ser.’ Loras lamented, taking Sansa’s hand in his own and pressing his lips to it. _Gods, he’s a natural_ , Robb decided.

‘I remember last year when I saw you joust at a tourney, Loras. It was really something, and I remember how afterwards you gave me a red rose. Do you remember?’ The glee in Sansa’s youthful voice was indescribable. It was nice to see her smile so brightly.

Robb considered all of the tourneys Loras must have partaken in, and decided that the number must be quite high. Sansa was a beauty, but a knight of Loras’ calibre wasn’t like to remember the face of a girl he’d seen once after a tourney. Still, the Knight of Flowers stood there for a moment, pretending to scour his brain for traces of a memory of Sansa.

‘Ah! I do remember you my Lady. How could I forget a young lady with a face as pretty as yours?’ Loras felicitated. _He certainly plays the part well. Sansa looks like she’s about to combust from all the blushing._

It was then that Robb decided to tune out of the conversation, turning his attention to the older members of house Tyrell.

‘So, Your Grace, how is King’s Landing possibly going to survive in your absence?’ It was an honest question Robb was eager to know the answer to. Behind him, he heard more giggling from his sister.

‘I have left my brother-by-law Paxter Redwyne in charge.’At the mention of the name, Olenna Tyrell sighed and began to have a separate conversation with Queen Alerie. Robb wondered what she had against Lord Redwyne. He himself had heard the name from his Father in one of his stories from his youth, and he sounded as honorable as a Stark would desire in a bannerman. ‘He’s a noble warrior and has a good knowledge of politics, so I trust the man. What do you know of politics, Robb? Do you know what your marriage to my Margaery means?’ Mace enquired. _Oh. So this must be where the interrogation begins._

Robb was hesitant to answer, but he’d expected questions similar to this to surface in conversation at some point.

‘Well,’ he began as he lead the group up a flight of stairs. ‘I’ve been told that the marriage is to solidify the unity between house Stark and house Tyrell,’ he started, looking for any sign of approval he could find on his Father-by-law-to-be’s face. All he got was a twitch of the moustache. ‘When I marry your daughter, it becomes certain that House Stark will always support House Tyrell in times of struggle. Whether it be military-wise, or anything other. Although, Your Grace, I do hope that the marriage begins to mean more than that to Margaery and I both, over time.’ _Courtesy._

Robb’s imitation of the Knight of Flowers’ charm seemed to do the trick when he earned a smile from the King.

‘A good answer, and true. Ned has taught you well, that’s plain to see.’ _Phew._

 

Luckily, they’d all reached the door to the chambers that Mace and Alerie would be staying in, so Robb sent a silent thanks to the Gods, because he was undeniably glad that he wouldn't have to face any more difficult questions from Margaery’s Father.

 

‘And this, Your Grace, is where you and Queen Alerie will be staying.’ Robb opened the door to reveal one of the more exquisite rooms of Winterfell. The fire looked as if had been lit for a while, so as to warm the chambers for the Southern royals. Robb had only been to King’s Landing once, and the only thing he’d remembered was the scorching weather. Although, he did have a faint memory of practising his swordsmanship with a boy similar to his own age, but he remembered too little of the encounter to invest any emotion in it.

There were roses scattered at various places in the room, and Robb was sure that by the time the royal visit was over, he’d never want to see a rose again. _You’re marrying a rose, fool._ Robb pardoned himself though, because an impending marriage is an easy thing to forget when you’re barely a man grown. It seemed that the belongings of the guests had already been delivered to the room, so he need not trouble himself with trying to locate the masses of items the King and Queen alone had brought with them.

‘Thank you, son.’ Mace said, placing a firm hand on Robb’s shoulder. His use of the word ‘son’ brought warmth to Robb’s heart, as it was a symbol of the fact that he’d been accepted into the family. He displayed his gratitude on his face with a grin, and as Alerie elegantly walked past him into the room, she reciprocated the smile. _And then there were four_.

Further along the hallway, the posse reached Olenna’s chambers, and much like her son had done, she accepted the humble accommodation with gratitude.

‘Wow, you’ve won her over with such ease, Stark. Usually it would take a mountain of charm to please my grandmother.’ When Robb raised an eyebrow at Loras, he quickly corrected himself. ‘Not that you’re not charming… You are, very. Charming, I mean. I just meant-’

‘It’s okay Loras. I understood, though it was amusing to watch you struggle just then.’ The smile that resulted from Robb was half smug, half reassuring. To Robb’s complete surprise, Loras was _blushing_ , which Robb took as a victory. _Wow, that was unexpected. Yet somehow Loras looks even more angelic than he did, what with the red tinge to his cheeks. I cannot tell him that, else he’ll hold it over me for as long as we both live._ Robb’s own thought took him by surprise,causing him to join the Blushing Brigade. He’d almost forgotten that Sansa was there, if he was being honest.

 

Sansa’s joy over being in the vicinity of her much-dreamed-about knight was interrupted by the arrival of Maester Luwin, who was quite clearly out of breath.

‘Sansa, your Mother is calling for you. She says it’s almost time for you to prepare for your lessons today. Septa Mordane has added that Princess Margaery will also be joining you at some point today. Ser Loras.’ The small old man had been rushing around the castle all day, no wonder he hadn’t had a chance to greet any of the royals until now.

‘You must be Maester Luwin. A pleasure to meet you!’ Loras nodded towards the old man, and he was sincere is his compliments. Judging by the way the old Maester tried to cover his smile, Sansa wasn’t the only one who would be falling in love with Ser Loras.

 

Reluctantly, Sansa dragged herself away from the Knight of Flowers. She sighed, almost inaudibly, and waved timidly at him.

 

‘Sansa? Are you going to leave me without even a goodbye?’ Robb questioned, emphasising his disappointment. His act gained giggles from both Sansa and Loras, and a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you-esque shake of the head from Luwin.

 

‘Goodbye, Robb. Goodbye, Loras. I’ll be seeing you both later, I hope? _No doubt the hope is geared towards Loras more than I,_ Robb thought.

 

‘You shall. I will look forward to then, my Lady.’ Loras offered a handsome smile to Sansa, who gladly returned a smile that was equally beautiful, before disappearing to follow Luwin.

 

_Now it’s just the two of us._

‘And then there were two.’ Loras observed, as if he could read Robb’s mind. _Maybe that’s a Southern thing,_ Robb mused, before realising how utterly stupid that concept would be.

 

‘Yes. Although, now that we are approaching your chambers, I’ll have to apologise for making your statement inaccurate.’ Robb said as they reached the door of Loras’ chamber. It wasn’t as splendid as his parents’ accommodation, but it would serve its purpose well enough. Loras stood in the doorway, and for the first time since meeting him, Robb observed that although Loras was one year his senior, Robb was only slightly shorter than him. Perhaps in the time leading up to his wedding, Robb would outgrow Loras. _Fat chance_.

 

‘Now, _Stark_ , you’d better treat my sister well, else I’ll have to joust you like we did that time when we were younger.’ _So that was Loras! The boy I jousted was Loras! We’ll have to see if he still wins now._ The answer was probably that Loras would win, being a knight and all, but Robb liked to remain optimistic.

‘Funny you should mention that, _Ser_. I was thinking about the fact that I’d jousted a boy of my age in King’s Landing when I was younger. We’ll have to try it again sometime.’ Robb proposed, foolishly. Oh so foolishly.

‘I’ll have to make sure I take a blunted lance. I mustn't risk slaughtering my sister’s betrothed, after all.’ Loras chuckled at the idea of a novice swordsman offering to fight him, a knight. _He is so kind that he’d waste his time on bettering my skills._

‘I’ll see you later, _Ser_.’ Robb waved.

‘And you too, _Stark_.’ Loras waved, a smile still playing on his lips that Robb attested to his own previous comment.

 

And with that, Robb took off back down the hallway. _Where am I to go now? And when am I to meet my betrothed, for goodness sake?_

 

When he reached the cracked stone staircase, Robb had decided he’d visit his own chambers to examine what state his hair was in, because although it was early, the day had been busy and he didn’t want to look unkempt when he saw Margaery. Or rather, when Margaery saw him.

 

...Which apparently, was going to be soon. Because as he ascended the staircase to reach his chambers, there Princess Margaery Tyrell was. Robb trailed his eyes from the floor to his betrothed, and looked into her eyes as she did his. This wasn’t really how Robb planned seeing her. _I was supposed to have time_.

Robb never did get a proper look at her, being that Margaery’s arrival was so rushed. But she was there now, and she looked even more beauteous than he’d first thought. For a start, her eyes held such emotional capacity- they were so alluring, yet with a hidden intelligence behind them that intrigued Robb so, so much. Of a lighter shade of brown than her eyes was her hair, which flowed seamlessly in relaxed waves down to just below her breasts. But Robb dared not to think about _those_ before his wedding night, because he had honour to uphold and he wasn’t about to disgrace his lady. So all he’d say about anything of _that_ manner is that Margaery Tyrell was every inch a woman grown. _I might be the luckiest man in Westeros if I get to marry a woman this beautiful._

Robb was by no means an expert on dresses, but he could imagine how excited Sansa would be at the opportunity to marvel at the one the Princess was wearing. Seven hells, it even had Robb feeling a tad in awe of the power of a seamstress, as he scanned every detail, from the soft blue tone of the skirt to the embellishment of golden flowers on the bodice. And it was _very_ low cut- but Robb wasn’t going to go there again.

Perhaps he’d been staring at the chest region of Margaery for too long, because when she noticed Robb staring a little too longingly at her, a smirk appeared across her lips. And gods be good, Robb thought. She’s even prettier when she smiles. Margaery didn’t have the same dimples as her brother Loras, instead, the skin on her face remained soft but for a slight crease on her left cheek which marked the way she smirked. Her lips were of a rosy pink colour, and they were prominent without being too intrusive. Her dainty nose served to make her appear even more deer-like, but still the smirk corrupted her overall innocence.

Robb knew he’d been staring too long, it felt like minutes had gone by, in fact, but he was far too lost for words to say anything.

‘So… You must be my betrothed.’ He finally said, although it was obvious. _Smooth, you fool. Real smooth. What will she think of me now?_

With every word Robb spoke, Margaery’s curious eyes followed his lips. _She’s as bold as her brother_.

‘If you’re the long-awaited Robb Stark, then I believe you’re correct.’ She stared into his eyes while she spoke, allowing them to linger a moment before looking towards the floor.

‘That would be me. You look a beauty, Your Grace, you really do. I hadn’t expected to meet you for the first time on a cracked staircase, I’ll admit.’ Now that Robb’s ease of words appeared to be coming back to him, he felt less intimidated by the Tyrell Princess.

‘You are very charming to say so. And you look quite handsome in your armour too, Robb. I was just on my way to look for you, the anticipation of waiting was making me quite nervous.’ And then, she let out a delicate laugh, and it was as tuneful as the birds that flew in their hundreds to Winterfell in the summer.

‘Well, Your Grace, might I suggest we go to my chambers and we can have a proper discussion?’ Robb asked boldly. _Worth a try_.

‘I think that sounds like an excellent idea. Although, Robb?’ Margaery spoke. After Robb widened his eyes as a request for he to continue, she did. ‘I would like it if you would just call me Margaery. Else I’d have to call you My Lord, and that would make for a very strict marriage, don’t you think?’ Margaery suggested.

‘I think you raise an excellent point, Margaery. Now, will you join me?’ Robb pushed out his arm as an invitation for his betrothed to take it. When she locked her slender, dainty hand through his metal-encased arm, Robb observed that although they were the same age, Margaery was a fair bit shorter than him. As the two strolled towards Robb’s chamber, Margaery passed a comment on the decoration of the castle.

‘It’s so very touching that you’ve taken the time to place these everywhere,’ she said as her free hand carried itself out towards a window seat to skim a red rose.

‘I wish I could take credit for that. I never was the creative type, you can ask anyone in my family. My sister Sansa is better at all of that.’ Robb laughed nervously, and Margaery beamed so as to settle his nerves slightly.

‘I’m sure you’re good at other things,’ Margaery said, her eyes wandering around the castle. Her grip on Robb’s arm was loose. Her voice was laced with just a sliver of bad intentions, though her eyes never met his, leaving the provocativity incomplete. Margaery was a clever young woman, Robb had learnt already, and it was as if she knew exactly how to play her hand. Although, that was probably simple when you had been dealt a considerably good hand in life.

‘Well, I’m not a half-bad swordsman, though I’m sure Loras could put me to shame with ease.’ Robb grinned, unable to pass comment without being modest. A common Stark trait, it would seem.

‘You’re harsh on yourself. Loras could put anyone to shame, I’m sure you’re better than you might think.’ Margaery laughed, and it was infectious. _She’ll be a natural with the little ones. For most men she’d be the ideal wife, so why am I so unconvinced?_

 

‘And how about you, Margaery? What do you spend your time doing?’ Robb asked, though his mind may have been elsewhere. _It’s okay. It takes time, Father said so_.

 

‘Let’s see… I enjoy intelligent conversation, and I go hawking with my cousins sometimes.’ After noting Robb’s confusion, Margaery took it upon herself to explain herself. ‘Oh, you don’t do that in the North do you? Too cold I suppose.’ She supposed correctly.

‘You think?’ Robb chuckled, gesturing to the window ahead of them where the snow was falling in its masses. His sarcasm earned him a light punch in the arm from the Princess, though thanks to the tough old armour encasing Robb’s arm, it was more like a butterfly flying into a wall.

‘Shut up,’ she managed, her face still aglow from her gaiety.’Anyway, I’ll have to take you with me sometime. When we go back to King’s Landing for our wedding, mayhaps?’ Once again, Margaery’s eyes were full of wonder, yet still she gave off the impression that she knew more than she should. _Almost like she’s read me already_.

After a few seconds of more walking, they reached Robb’s chambers. Robb heaved the door open- it was getting rather stubborn after all these years, Robb had found- and he allowed Margaery to pass by him, into the warmth of his room.

‘I’d like that very much. And in return, I’ll take you to one of my archery tournaments. They’re no major event, but I like to think I’m not half bad.’ Claimed Robb, who had followed his betrothed into his room and taken a seat on his bed.

The mirror  Robb had his eyes glued to mere hours ago had misted over thanks to the heat in the room, which judging by Margaery’s expression had been completely unexpected. It was strange little things like this that made Robb love Winterfell so.

‘Then it’s decided. And why is it so warm in here? There’s a blizzard out there, I’m surprised you don’t freeze to death!’ Margaery questioned. Robb smiled. He enjoyed being able to explain why he loved his home, and it made him just that little bit more proud of his modest castle.

‘It all goes back to Brandon the Builder.’ Robb had never been the greatest of storytellers but he took pride in his history.

Margaery rested her blue-silk clad elbows on the oak table in front of her, her face cupped by her cheeks. ‘Tell me,’ she’d said, so Robb channelled his inner Old Nan and began the story of Winterfell.

‘Brandon the Builder. He built Winterfell over eight thousand years ago with the help of giants. Running beneath us are natural hot springs, and that’s why we’re so warm right now. Brandon also built it around an ancient godswood, because we Starks have been worshipping the Old Gods for centuries, though my Father did have the sept built for my Mother so she’d feel more at ease. I hope you feel at ease, my Princess. I’d hate for you to feel like an outsider.’ Robb could have gone on for hours about his humble home and its impressive history, but he restrained himself, because he wasn’t trying to bore Margaery and he couldn’t tell if her interest was feigned or real. He wasn’t sure what was real at all, at this point.

‘You’ve made me feel quite comfortable, Robb. And regardless of the fact that I am Southron, my children will be Northerners. I won’t be an outsider.’ She smiles sympathetically, as if she understood the surreality of the situation. _She does understand. This marriage wasn’t her idea_.

 

‘Where are we getting married?’ She asked, out of the blue.

‘What?’ Robb was a bit slow. He’d hoped it wouldn’t bother Margaery, but she had a sharp wit, so for all he knew, it could have done.

‘We’ll be getting married in King’s Landing, I’m the King’s daughter, so my wedding is expected to be as extravagant as my name. The smallfolk won’t be satisfied with a hidden wedding up here.’ Margaery’s tone wounded Robb slightly. He was sure she meant nothing by it, but the implication was there. Winterfell was a great castle, a Northern wedding could be just as magnificent as one in King’s Landing, couldn’t it?

 _Still, it’s not a big deal_ , he told himself, and continued his attempt to build a happy marriage.

 

‘But where will we do it? In a Sept? Or a Godswood?’ She’d been thinking about this a lot. _Me too, my Princess, me too_.

Robb wasn’t sure how to handle this question. He knew the Tyrells had been worshippers of the Faith of the Seven for as long as they’d reigned, but the Starks had descended from the first men, and were firm believers of the old gods.The only exception of his family to this rule was obviously his Lady Mother, the eldest daughter of Hoster Tully, and also his sister Sansa, whom Robb had suspected was under the spell of the heroism of the Warrior and the intriguing anonymity of the Stranger.

He had to remember his courtesy, Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn had made sure _that_ idea was firmly drilled into his head. So in his heart, he let go of his notion of a Northern wedding, for it was a small sacrifice to make against satisfying his betrothed, and even more importantly, her Father, the King.

‘I know your family have always followed the Seven, and I intend to honour this as I would honour you. I suggest we marry in a Sept.’ The statement brought on an ache of pain in the depths of Robb’s heart, but he intended to die in the blaze of battle, bloody and vengeful, not at the hands of the King’s executioner. Margaery recognised Robb’s inner turmoil and attempted to soothe the pain by granting him a grateful smile. He appreciated the gesture, he supposed, but he hadn’t wanted to marry into a family of such responsibility. A Westerling of The Crag would have been fine, a Mormont of Bear Island perhaps, another house of modest surroundings. But the Tyrells of Highgarden? The extravagant inhabitants of King’s Landing? It was a bit much for Robb to bear. But still, he concealed his anxieties with his armour, which barricaded his tears from leaving his eyes.

‘So it’s decided. We will deliver our vows in the Sept of Baelor, surrounded by all those we hold dear, and probably those my Father holds dear too.’ She said, a hint of apology laced in her voice. Robb knew the Sept of Baelor. He hadn’t frequented it during his short stay in the capital all those years ago, but just days ago, he’d been studying the geography of The Crownlands and The Reach intently with Maester Luwin. He hadn’t been planning to cause the breakdown of his marriage before it had even commenced thanks to an incorrect admission. The Red Keep was said to be awe-inspiring, which Robb would enjoy visiting, but he could not imagine having to spend all of his days there.

As the topic of marriage locations hung awkwardly in the air, he presented his betrothed with the musings of his mind.

‘How have you managed to live your life in King’s Landing all this time? Forgive me if I sound rude, but it's no simple place.’ He spoke with a hint of his Father’s ways, the solitary and the reserved. Margaery leaned up from her comfortable pose on her own hands, and if it were not for her slightly smaller standing height, she’d be at the same level as Robb, a Wolf and a Rose with their eyes intertwined.

 

‘It’s all I’ve ever known. My Father and Mother were married already when my Father won the throne, and then Willas came along, and Garlan, and Loras, and me. I never lived in Highgarden, as much as I would have liked to. Only visited, I had to fulfill my duty as the Princess.’ _Obligation. Something that runs thick through each of our veins, her and I are alike, it would seem_.

 

‘I’ve heard tales of the beauty of Highgarden from my sister. I’m surprised - it would seem like the kind of place you’d adore.’ Said the Wolf. In truth, when he’d first heard of the alleged splendour of the seat of house Tyrell, he’d half expected Margaery to be an empty-headed beauty queen. But he was presently surprised at the woman in his frame of vision, with her eyes full of wonder and voice full of intrigue. Although he hadn’t felt the spark that he’d thought he was meant to when he looked into her eyes.

 

 _It’s okay. It takes time_. And he cast his worry aside. Or tried to.

Then his betrothed spoke, and the harmony in her tone sent him crashing back down to his reality like the snow outside his castle.

 

‘Oh, I _adore_ Highgarden. When I was little, I remember I’d always cling to my Grandmother’s legs in the hopes that she’d let me stay there with her. But I always had to return to King’s Landing, back to where I’d stay until some noble Lord came to stay before he’d whisk me away, far away from everything I called home.’ Her voice was softer now, like Robb’s had been when he’d first heard of his Father’s impending departure.

And for the first time since he’d met her on the cracked staircase, Robb saw something hidden in the depths of Margaery’s eyes: Fear. But it was so deep-seated, so desperately repressed that he knew he would never reach it. So he sat there on the comfort of his canopy and whispered a silent prayer for himself and Margaery, the Wolf and the Rose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was chapter three!  
> i promise the next chapter is a sansa pov, i've already written it and it's slightly shorter than this one and the last one, but i'm still tryna set up the story.  
> thank you very much for reading, i appreciate it a lot, and if you have any feedback then by all means, feel free to comment or get in touch with my twitter, @targreyjoyen !!  
> \- jess


	4. What's mine is yours to make your own,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Maybe... We should drop the formalities, Sansa. It would please me greatly if you’d just call me Margaery. I’d like very much for us to be.. friends.’

 

Septa Mordane was already well into her teaching when Sansa arrived at the Library of Winterfell. The array of books upon books was always a welcome sight to Sansa, who had always loved taking her leisure in this very tower, surrounded by nothing but the lores of ancient princes and their princesses. She’d always found a comfort in this library, for it was the only place she could get lost in her stories without feeling like the subject of ridicule from her sister. When Arya was born, Sansa had been beside herself with joy at the idea of having a little sister to share her reverie with, but Arya had turned out to be more like her brothers, and idolised notorious knights like Sansa, but only so that she could be like them.

 

‘Thank you, Maester.’ She nodded her thanks to Luwin, who had escorted her to her place of divine comfort. The old man traipsed back through the aged oaken door, and Sansa ventured further into the warm embrace of the library.

To her delight, she was immersed in the consoling fragrance of the library, which was composed of candles burning bright with lavender, and the intrigue of all the years passed by the books. Winterfell was no Sunspear, it wasn’t home to the knights who danced their dances like they did in Sansa’s mind, but when she found herself sheltered from Winter’s frost in her withered old library, her mind was aglow with every dream of spring she’d ever had.

 

She’d often fantasized that she was Rhaenyra Targaryen, standing flawlessly in her valyrian diamonds and myrish lace, the desire of noble knights far and wide. As much as Sansa envied the tales of how well Rhaenyra was adored, she knew all too well how that story had ended thanks to her ragged little sister, and since Arya had corrupted her illusion, she’d feared ageing. She feared the day when she’d feel her youth slide through her own hands and the wrinkles would writhe across her face. Sansa did not want to lose her grace to the sands of time.

 

Still- she was young today. Her auburn hair was out of site, arranged into a masterpiece, but when she reached up with unblemished hands, it was as silken as the pleats in her gown of mysterious azure. And what a wondrous gown it was.

 

So, Sansa decided that for now she did not need to be any other Lady but herself. Sansa Stark, the Elegant Wolf of house Stark. Not a pretender, but an angel in the North, waiting to shine in her own right.

 

_ I will, one day. But not today, because the Princess is here now, and no doubt she’ll be the one who steals the hearts of my people _ . Jealous she may be, but the curious nature she shared with her brother Bran was reigning the throne of her mind. She was eager to finally meet Princess Margaery, though it appeared she wasn’t yet in attendance in the library.  _ It could be that she got sidetracked. With Robb, mayhaps? _ Sansa chuckled at the thought, because she knew her eldest trueborn brother had been running wild with worry over the prospect of meeting his new wife. She’d offered to trade places with him, if Prince Loras was willing of course.  _ If Prince Loras was willing. Even if he was, there is no way Mother will let me get married any time soon. Especially after what happened with Joffrey. _ Sansa didn’t like to dwell on what had happened last year, for she did not enjoy the suffering her memories brought her at night. So she drew her mind back to the present, where her greatest friend, Jeyne Poole, was seated at the front waiting for her.

She joined her slightly younger friend, who seemed pleased to see her from the beam resting easily on her lips. Or maybe that wasn’t Sansa’s doing, but the welcome hysteria that the royal party had brought along with them.

 

‘Sansa! Have you met the Princess yet!?’ From the hopeful words that fell from Jeyne’s lips, Sansa knew her thoughts had been proven true.

‘Not yet. I  _ did _ see Ser Loras, though.’ Teased Sansa, knowing that Jeyne had been as eager to catch a glimpse of the elusive Knight of Flowers as she herself had been. Sansa took her place on a stool next to Jeyne, and though she wasn’t a woman grown (even though she had wanted to be), she found that in her adolescence, she was swiftly outgrowing the small wooden chairs which Septa Mordane had requested to lead her class. It was a small class, usually made up of only Sansa, Jeyne Poole, Beth Cassel, and a few of her Father’s servant’s daughters. And Arya.  _ Where is she? _ Arya had never taken enjoyment, or even enlightenment, from Septa Mordane’s lessons, Sansa knew that, but in her view, it was about time that her younger sister began to act like the Lady she would be one day. But alas, the Fearless Wolf, as Arya had called herself, was not present, and it did not surprise Sansa one bit.  _ One day she’ll have to do what’s expected of her. Of us. Mother said so herself. _

‘You did!?  _ Seven hells _ , Sansa, what was he like!?’ Jeyne exclaimed, unable to contain her glee. In fact, she was so excited that she’d alarmed Septa Mordane, who directed a daggered stare at Jeyne and Sansa, which caused the two girls to ricochet between the firm oak seats and the crisp library air.

‘ _ Lady _ Jeyne, that is no way to speak in this castle. Or  _ anywhere _ , for that matter.’ Scolded the Septa, who made sure to emphasise the word ‘Lady,’ for it was for the purpose of learning the values of one that the girls were in the library in the first place. Sansa appreciated the Septa, but it was still a task to stifle her mirth.

‘I’m sorry, Septa. I will remember that.’ From the subtle mischievousness in Jeyne’s voice, Sansa could tell that her friend was facing the same minor struggle. Still, the mischief was undetected by the Septa and the apology seemed to suffice, so she turned back to her own desk, preparing to tutor the girls. She stood, and began to walk around the room, handing out the unfinished embroidery work to their respective owners. After she’d done her rounds, she stood tall and commanding, and watched over her tutees as they got to work.

‘So, what was he like?’ Jeyne whispered, trying to be more careful after the mishap of a minute ago. The curiosity in her tone did not go unnoticed by Sansa, who had set to work on her embroidery. It was beautiful, as anyone may have expected of a courteous young woman like herself. She was a _ Lady _ , after all. And she was totally, entirely captivated by the Knight of Flowers.

‘He was so handsome, oh Jeyne, he was just as we’d expected him to be. So gallant, even more than his brother, I dare say, and I haven’t even met Garlan yet.’ It took all of Sansa’s strength to stop herself from babbling every detail of Loras’ amenity, for it had overwhelmed even her, and she’d had no doubt in her hopeful little mind that he’d be just as chivalrous as a knight should be. But he had surpassed all expectations and beaten them to the ground, and  _ seven hells _ , Sansa had  _ not _ been prepared.

‘You’re being _ so vague _ , Sansa. I need  _ details _ . His hair? His eyes? What was he wearing?’ The excitement in Jeyne’s hushed voice when they talked of chevaliers and Princes always reminded Sansa that she was not the only girl who had hoped to win a Prince’s heart.  _ But he told me to call him Loras instead of Ser Loras. That must count for something. _

 

‘He gave me leave to call him Loras. Not Ser Loras, just Loras. Jeyne, what do you think it means? And he gave me a rose last year. Jeyne, I think I’m in love.’ With the admission of this statement, Sansa was sure she saw Septa Mordane shaking her head. _ Oh well. If she’d seen Loras too, I’m sure she’d be speaking like me. _

 

‘He was that beautiful?’ Jeyne asked, dumbfounded. Sansa was finding it very difficult to concentrate on her needlework now that her thoughts were lost in a maze of impossible scenarios she would have liked to be in with Loras, but still, it was incredible work, and Septa Mordane seemed to think so too.

‘Lady Sansa, that is some awe-inspiring work. You’ve outdone yourself again.’ The Septa gushed, before her proud expression morphed into one of concern, and she took in a sharp breath before speaking.

‘Sansa, my dear, I must warn you not to get too attached to Ser Loras. He’ll be leaving again for King’s Landing soon, and I don't want you yearning for someone who has unavoidable commitments.’ The Septa was blunt, but her voice was weighted with as much care as a Mother.

Sansa knew her tutor was right, even if the knowledge was only deep down in her mind, but she wouldn’t allow her heart to let go of the hope it clinged to. Ser Loras was the knight who graced Sansa’s dreams, and her dreams were her happiest place.

‘I know, Septa. I was just being friendly with the Prince.’ Sansa lied. It was almost like she was trying to convince herself that she wasn’t about to fall hopelessly in love with Loras. It wasn’t working, and Sansa was ready to accept her doom.

Septa Mordane offered a wry smile to Sansa, and returned to her desk where she got to work on her own embroidery.

 

The echo of distant laughter seemed to approach the door, and it was almost so loud that Sansa thought it would awaken the fallen knights and princesses who had all of their actions of valour and beauty captured in the pages that the library was full of. The ricochet of the playful giggling would have been enough to topple the Tales of Rhaegar Targaryen off the top shelf, had it not been barricaded, restrained, hidden by several other chivalrous stories. That was the thing about knights. Their interests were in staying alive and being the boldest until the next young warrior came along to steal their glory.

 

‘That’s Arya, I can tell. I bet she’s going to walk in here, covered head to toe in dirt, acting like it doesn’t even matter.’ She whispered to Jeyne, annoyance clinging on to her every word. Jeyne sighed in response, accompanying her gesture with a roll of the eyes, as was her duty in being Sansa’s most loyal friend. The duo had often spoken about how much Arya irritated Sansa, or rather, Sansa had talked, and Jeyne had listened, the latter of which offering the occasional sign of agreement.

 

Sansa was right. After the door was violently swung open, she saw that Arya was perched in the doorway as if she’d forgotten that she was meant to be there. Mischief was sprawled across her face like it lived there, and to say that it did would not have been a lie in Sansa’s view. She sighed at the sight of her misbehaving little sister, who only offered back a wild grin. _ She looks like a miniature madwoman _ .

She looked up to realise that the whole class was staring at her little sister, and Septa Mordane too. The Septa had always been wary of Arya due to the latter’s lack of care in concealing her unwarranted endeavours, and right now, she looked completely disappointed. It looked like she was about to launch into a raging rant, which Sansa would have relished, but the appearance of another person at the door stopped her before she could even start. Her expression of shock didn’t leave her face, but rather gained another layer- one of unexpected delight.

 

Sansa couldn’t blame her, because her own countenance had been altered too when she realised who it was that was waiting at the door. It was the Princess, in all of her statuesque glory, and in that moment, Sansa felt her self-esteem plummet to the lowest level of the crypts of Winterfell. She swore she’d been blinded by Margaery’s radiance, so why not take it one step further and give up now?  _ Wow _ .

The Elegant Wolf could only look on and envy Margaery as she made her subtle yet grand entrance. Or rather, her attempt at a subtle entrance- because now, she had the eyes of everyone in the room on her, Arya being the exception. And Sansa had no doubt that she wasn’t even trying.

It had taken a while for Sansa’s courtesy to kick in before she realised that it was rude to stare, as she’d been told many a time by her Mother. She quickly subverted her eyes back to her work, or she did, until she felt Margaery’s eyes on her, a watchful gaze with the slightest of smirks to complete her look of allure.  _ She’s probably insulted by the sight of me. I wager she thinks me to be hideous _ . Margaery was amused, that much was obvious, and under the Princess’ scrutiny, Sansa felt her cheeks heat up in what could have been the same shade as her hair, and what a tragedy that would have been.  _ Her dress is beautiful _ , she thought, desperately trying to restrain her eyes from looking up from her embroidery.  _ Did she embroider that? How will anything I make ever compare to her work? _

 

And then Septa Mordane broke her stunned silence and attempted to welcome the Princess to her class. _ Attempted _ .

‘Princess Margaery… I.. Wel-come to my…. Class.’ It seemed like a struggle for the Septa to breathe the words out of her mouth, but she did, and Margaery Tyrell’s eyes hastily snapped away from Sansa’s direction. The smile straightened itself into something less likely to trigger Sansa’s demise, yet still worthy of causing damage. _ Why can’t I be her? When will I ever look as beautiful as she does? _

 

‘Thank you, Septa. I do apologise for how late Arya and I are, it’s just that I’d met with my betrothed earlier on and Arya here was helping me find my way over here.’ She grinned, ruffling Arya’s hair. A few moments passed before Septa Mordane’s perplexed face prompted Margaery to address the state of Arya’s clothing. Sansa’s younger sister, of course, was still grinning mischievously, firing looks of ‘I’m-standing-with-the-Princess-and-you’re-not’ at Sansa.Much to the latter’s disappointment, of course. ‘Oh, and we may have gotten sidetracked. _ This _ little one insisted that I chase her through the courtyard.’ said Margaery, the entrancing incandescence remaining a hostage in her chestnut toned eyes. Any doubt Sansa’s Septa may have had disappeared from her face when she broke into a welcoming smile.

‘Typical of little Arya. You’re very welcome to join us in our embroidery class, Princess. In fact, perhaps you could sit with Lady Sansa. Her work has been exemplary ever since she could lift a finger to sew. Yes, that should work nicely.’ The Septa instructed, and Sansa was sure that she felt her cheeks burn crimson. She couldn’t be sure if it was down to the flattery her Septa had lavished upon her, or the fact that Margaery was looking at her again. She wasn’t just looking, though. No, her eyes travelled from Sansa’s hair, which was impressively structured above her head, to her rosy lips, all the way down to the cotton sleeves of her dress. _ Don’t think about it _ .

 

There were a few seconds of tense silence before Margaery felt the need to offer a reply to the Septa. 

‘I already admire her work.’  _ You weren’t looking at my work. You were staring at me. In dismay, I’m sure _ . The Princess had diverted her attention to Sansa now.  _ Again _ . ‘I shall be honoured to work with you, Lady Sansa.’ 

Unable to fathom a response, or even give Jeyne a giddy look, Sansa remained frozen in her place. All she could do was smile timidly, and wait for Margaery to take a seat beside her.

The Septa seemed as if she was ready to attend to Arya, as mammoth of a task that could be sometimes. But instead, she turned to face the girls again.

‘Oh, and Jeyne?’ Sansa witnessed her best friend’s eyes widen in anticipation; the only response Jeyne seemed in a position to give. A bashful girl, she was, but Sansa always savoured the quiet moments when all the two of them would do was giggle about the things they’d seen. ‘I would be very gracious if you could go and aid Arya in her work. She’s been… struggling, as you’re probably aware.’ Continued the Septa, sending a grimace in Arya’s direction. Arya was now fumbling her hands at the piece of embroidery she’d butchered, and Sansa couldn’t say she was surprised. As much as her sister’s incapability bothered her for the most part, Sansa couldn’t help but giggle at the frustration plastered across Arya’s face.

And then she watched Jeyne shuffle over to join Arya, displeasement written on the former’s face, and realised that she had no idea how to make conversation with Margaery on her own.  _ Great. I’m practically alone with the Princess and I don’t even know how to look her in the eye. I’m going against everything I’ve ever been taught about courtesy. _

 

‘Lady Sansa. I’m thrilled to finally meet you, your brother told me all about you. I’ve been dying to meet you, and I’m glad I have your embroidery expertise to rely on.’ Margaery said, and Sansa was brimming with gratitude that she didn’t have to be the one to initiate the conversation. The Princess was sat so close to Sansa that she was certain she could feel her mellifluous tone surge through her veins. It didn’t feel bad, Sansa thought, in fact it had offered an easy comfort to mask her anxiety.

‘The honour is mine, Your Grace. And I’m sure you’re mistaking my expertise for your own. Your dress is beautiful.’ Sansa spoke, truthfully. If Sansa’s cheeks could have gotten any redder, she was sure they would have done, but at this point Sansa knew there wasn’t much point in trying to conceal it anyway. Margaery would see right through the act, she was sure. 

‘You’d be surprised, Lady Sansa. There are plenty of skilled seamstresses in King’s Landing, so my Father decided that there was no point in me learning the trade. Much to my Mother’s dismay, of course,’ the Princess revealed, the frequent quirks in the perfect arch of her eyebrows giving away the fact that it was perhaps to her own dismay, too. ‘I always tried to learn things from my Mother, though. So I know a few tricks of the trade, as it were.’ This new revelation from Margaery consolidated Sansa’s theory that she was a keen-learner.  _ And maybe not just a keen learner. Keen, that’s right. That’s a good word for the Princess _ , Sansa thought, taking note of the inquisitive, unrelenting glances that the Princess kept taking at the room around her. Her eyes always returned to Sansa, though; another thing that did not go unnoticed by the latter.

‘I don’t know how to do anything too exquisite. Just these basic stitches, see? Maybe we’ll end up teaching each other something, Your Grace.’ Sansa plucked up the courage to smile, and it felt good to relax into the comfort of Margaery’s company. She held up her embroidery hoop for Margaery to see, knowing all too well that Starks had the habit of belittling their own achievements. That was one piece of her that was undeniably Stark.

‘Oh, my Lady, that’s beautiful. And it looks just like the one on your dress too!  _ Heavens _ , did you make it?’ Margaery gasped, lifting Sansa’s arm to her view with delicate hands which held Sansa with care and tenderness. Her eyes traced the designs on Sansa’s arm with the same consideration, taking in the direwolf embedded into the sleeve of her right arm, which was almost a replica of the one sewn on to her embroidery hoop, with just a slight variation in the patterns of the roses strewn about the proximity of the wolf.  _ Symbolic _ , Sansa had thought when she had first gotten to work on the design.

‘It’s beautiful. Very symbolic, Lady Sansa. It suits you well, and when I live here more permanently I might have to ask you to make me a similar masterpiece,’ applauded the Rose, who once again, locked eyes with the Wolf in a way that seemed to have made the excited chattering of the other girls in the room fade into a murmur. Maybe the stare lingered for too long, but that didn’t seem to matter too much to either of them.  _ A little, but not too much _ .

‘Thank you ever so much, Your Grace. That means more than you know, and I’d love to make one of these for you.’ Sansa wasn’t sure when her arm was relieved of Margaery’s gentle hold, but it had been somewhere along the timeline of the last few moments, and her arm felt colder without the warmth of the Southern girl’s touch. _ The North and the South, the Wolf and the Rose, _ Sansa mused.

‘Lady Sansa?’ Margaery asked, a hint of foreboding for  _ something _ in her voice.

‘Your Grace?’ Sansa countered, eager to provide an answer to Margaery’s impending question. The Princess’ eyes were dwindling from Sansa’s eyes to the floor, and Sansa could see that she was nervous, which was shocking to her, given that Margaery always seemed to display such a put-together countenance

‘Maybe... We should drop the formalities, Sansa. It would please me greatly if you’d just call me Margaery. I’d like very much for us to be.. friends.’ Margaery grinned, although Sansa detected a quirk, a hesitancy in the way Margaery had said the word ‘friends,’ and though it had been but liminal, it alerted Sansa’s mind. Sansa hadn’t ever been very adept at figuring out the hidden, deeper meanings behind her peer’s tones, but usually she could let go of her inability in her heart. This, however, was not all that simple to let go of, and she had no idea why.

  
‘I’d like that very much, Margaery.’ Sansa returned, plastering a smile over her concern. Though Margaery’s counter-smile had put a fraction of Sansa’s concern at rest, the millions of possibilities of what the Princess had meant played out in her curious mind over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first non robb pov chapter! the next one is a loras chapter.  
> im sorry for my irregular upload schedule, i get busy with exams a lot this year so im sorry.  
> thank you very much for reading, and if you have any feedback please feel free to leave a comment!  
> \- jess :)


	5. It fucks with your honour and it teases your head,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As evening approaches, the Starks and the Tyrells gather in the Great Hall to break news of Robb and Margaery's betrothal to Winterfell's people.  
> Some people enjoy the event, some are bored, and some have a great deal of pain inflicted upon them by the words and feelings exchanged throughout the course of the event. Loras fits into the latter category.

 

The Great Hall was aglow with the ambient sound of mindless chatter, and although Loras was sure that anyone who lacked particular status was drunk beyond comprehension, everyone seemed to be smitten with their own euphoria. _ That’s never a bad thing _ , Loras decided.  _ Not up here in the North anyway, a thousand leagues away from King’s Landing _ .

The sweetest wine of the Arbor was flowing aplenty from table to table, and the smallfolk and Starks alike were certainly not wasting the opportunity to taste the renowned liquor. Loras had noticed that Lord and Lady Stark, along with those of their children who were old enough, had been minimal in their intake. Just as Father said.  _ He’s never met anyone more careful than Eddard Stark. _

The only thing disrupting the pleasant warmth of the hall’s atmosphere was the vaguely hostile rumble of the brontide hiding away from the castle. Having lived beneath the embrace of the Summer for all of his life, King Mace Tyrell’s third son had been mildly scared when the first rumble of thunder had struck earlier that day, but Bran Stark, the Boy Wolf, of all people had detected his fear and tried to rest his mind. ‘Don’t worry. These walls are made of granite and they’ll stand against anything. Trust me, I would know.’ He had said, with a smile that had just the tiniest hint of irony.  _ A perceptive young boy, and not half bad with his wit either. Grandmother will have taken to him, I’ll wager. He’s like Willas. _

As if on cue, the scene of Bran and Loras’ eldest brother engaged in an intellectual looking exchange of wits came into view as Loras took a few further steps into the hall. He’d been perched at the doorway for longer than he should have been, transfixed on Robb and Margaery, who seemed to be enamoured with each other already. Perhaps he was over analyzing it, perhaps the smiles darting between the two of them were more dutiful than loving, and it was possible that Margaery was just trying to do what had been asked of her by their father. Loras knew Margaery as well as he knew his own sword, and he knew that she was inherently good at fulfilling her duty. But he didn’t know Robb. And Loras didn’t know what scared him more; the fact that Margaery might have been the one commanding the siege on Robb Stark's heart, or the fact that he was still stood far away from them, desperately wishing he was the one in his sister’s place. _ Seven hells, I’m a fool _ .

 

Though his mind pleaded with him to stay lodged in the comfort of the doorway, his heart beckoned him to venture further into the commotion before him. To be near Robb. Near him at least, if he couldn’t talk to him. Against his better judgement, he felt himself wander towards the table of Starks and Tyrells. As he edged closer to those he knew, he took note of who was present. Lord and Lady Stark of course, sat commandingly at the head of the table. Beside the two of them, Loras’ Father almost looked like a mere bannerman, in spite of the crown atop his head and name. It was true that Mace Tyrell was not half the fighter he had been during Robert’s Rebellion when he ended up stepping up to the throne for himself, and in truth, Loras had often confided in Garlan that he felt their Father brought shame upon the military potential of the two of them. Of course, Garlan had responded with all the wisdom that Willas might have done, telling him that no one in the realm was like to forget the bravery with which their father had won the throne. While the reassurance had eased Loras’ mind for a while, the doubts he had fought against had never truly left his mind, every now and then coming back to make him question his own limits. A Knight of the Kingsguard was an honourable position, and Loras was no less than Lord Commander, but the appointment was only made because of his Father being King. But Loras had tried desperately to contain his disdain for the man who sat on the iron throne since the day he became a knight. _ It should have been Renly sitting in my Father’s place _ . His frustration filled him with shame, and a bitter sense of longing for a reality that would never be.  _ Not now, not after what happened _ .

 

He didn’t wish to spend time grieving for what he used to have when the chance to forge new bonds was sitting metres away. Absent from the table was Garlan, who was probably off somewhere gallivanting around the courtyard on horseback. Even at this time of night, when the night had surely swept across every stronghold of the north, and the stars were watching spectacularly over the civilians and rogues of the land alike. _ Always looking for a challenge, is my brother. And I’ll bet the younger Stark girl is off with him being that challenge _ . Loras’ Father had seen to it that he and his siblings were well prepared for the instance of an excitement-fuelled ambush from the youngest of the Starks. 

 

Loras approached the noble table, nestling his way into a seat between his Mother, who was perfectly poised in a state of grandiose authority, and his sister, who followed their Mother’s lead. He sent respectful nods in the directions of Lord and Lady Stark, who reciprocated the gesture.

‘Ser Loras,’ Lord Eddard affirmed acknowledgingly. ‘How have you found Winterfell so far?’ The Lord of Winterfell’s voice came out as a well-rooted gravelly tone, a true reflection of his status as a man of the North. As captivating as Eddard’s voice was, Loras found it incredibly difficult to tune out the intriguing premise of Margaery and Robb’s conversation.

‘I have, my Lord. It’s a great change from what I’m accustomed to, but it’s a welcome one. I thank you for granting us your service, Lord Eddard.’ Loras said coolly. His courtesy earned him a gallery of smiles from his Mother and Father who beamed radiantly and unrestrained, and more modest countenances from Lord and Lady Stark, and although they were reserved, Loras was sure they were a sign of approval. He felt a weight drop off the armour shielding his shoulders, and his joy must have increased tenfold when he noticed that Robb now had his eyes on him too. Loras hadn’t heard the diminuendo of the song of Robb and Margaery, but sure enough, Robb was smiling a little less modestly than his Mother and Father, and Loras had to use all of his strength to deny himself the complicated pleasure of analysing the situation. _ Ah. Here I am again, with my knees pressed against those of the handsome soldier across from me, struggling desperately against a desire to go right over there and kiss him, right in front of my sister; his betrothed, and everyone who could possibly object. What a terrible knight I am, bereft of my discipline. _

His absent muse sent for a dimpled grin to smother itself across his face, much to Loras’ dismay, and he had to scramble to rid his expression of anything that might betray his private considerations.

However, he was much too slow, and Loras found himself shying away from the questioning glint in Robb’s eyes, accompanied by one raised eyebrow which Loras was tempted to interpret as a personal attack. Because Robb was out to get him, even if he didn’t know he was, and Loras was not exactly welcoming of another potential disaster in his life. Or maybe he  _ would _ be welcoming, and _ that _ would be the problem.

Similar looks of confusion and want for answers was distributed amongst the other nobles present at the table. Willas and Margaery appeared to find humour in the situation as well as Robb, but Robb was teasing him, and as if the unplaceable look wasn’t enough, he still hadn’t removed his knee from its leaning position against Loras’.  _ Does he notice it’s there? And what would he do if he had any idea that I’m the one lusting after him? Best not to entertain that thought. _

 

In a bid to free himself from the humiliation of all eyes upon him due to his outburst of mirth, Loras took a drink from the cup in front of him, unsure of what was even in it. A few elongated sips found the answer for him. Arbor Gold- the wine that always made Loras feel uneasy,  _ Oh, why not add the bitter taste of this familiar wine to my predicament.  _

Loras thought he’d concealed his disgust well, but the sudden gust of laughter that surged through the present Starks and Tyrells informed him otherwise. _ Seven hells, this just gets better and better _ .

‘Not a fan of the wine of your own relatives, Loras?’ It was Robb who spoke, and Loras didn’t wish to get his hopes up, but he thought he heard the slightest underlying hint of flirtation in his voice. However, it was probably just the apprehension talking, and anyway, his tone was probably fortified by a newfound love in the form of Margaery. _ Talk about sibling rivalry _ .  _ My sister will figure it out soon enough. She always does, am I that obvious. _

 

Loras scrunched up his face into a playfully annoyed expression, shying his eyes away from those around him- particularly Robb, whose eyes remained fixed on Loras, effortlessly yet determinedly trying to pry his gaze from the bitter wine in his tankard.

 

‘Would you be so daring as to mock a Prince, Robb?’ Loras countered, the gentle placing of his hand on his heart signalling his feigned shock. It was the best he could do for now, and he was silently sending his thanks to the Gods for the trace of wit that he was blessed with every so often. He regained his composure, and felt the fierce glow of the crimson embellished upon his cheeks dwindle into a lighter pink colour, and decided that that would have to do for now. The room had already been ignited with the harmonies of  a thousand tones of laughter, and the peal of  his Father and Mother, Lord and Lady Stark and Margaery added to the unbreakable wall of unadulterated joy. Even Bran and Willas had looked up from whatever wisdom that had been flitting between the two of them, and intrigued smiles had appeared on their faces too.

 

But not Robb. He didn’t emit any sound of laughter, but the amusement on his face was plain to see. Loras thought he’d seen the slightest flicker of surprise wave across his face, but it was almost instantly replaced by a considerate look of determined strategy.  _ Let’s see what attack he’s about to fire at me. _

‘Well, if the Prince has already coughed up half a lung after tasting a wine he should be accustomed to, then I believe he’s already mocked himself, don’t you think?’ Robb asked proudly, a smug smile creeping across his lips. Loras had never wanted the thralls of death to drag him away more than he had then; because handsome Robb Stark was looking up at him with encouragement in his cerulean stare, willing Loras to continue their japes. _This is fine. It’s okay. Nothing is going to happen- I’ve known him not even a week, and soon enough I’ll be far away from him in King’s Landing, where I won’t have to suffer the inescapable charm he wields with such skill. I can survive until then, right?_ Unfortunately, the thought caused a sinking feeling to manifest itself in Loras’ heart rather than reassure it, because as crippling as his slight yearning for Robb was, he didn’t want to be without him, but he didn’t dare to allow his inner turmoil to present itself to the onlookers of the jests, who were all observing intently, eagerly anticipating what Loras might possibly say next.

 

Anyone who’d just walked in may have taken the scene as a possibility for a drunken brawl, but the innocent, entertaining truth of the situation was an occurrence of interest to those sat at the table.

‘You forget that I’m a Knight, and not a half bad one either, so the realm says. No doubt I could still cause some damage with half a lung gone,’ Loras’ remark resulted in ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from the audience. Robb removed the intensity of his willing stare from Loras, and it became apparent that he was struggling to find a worthy response. Everyone else seemed to notice, Theon Greyjoy was devouring the situation like a steak, and beside him, Jon Snow the bastard, who was sat tables away, was wincing as if Loras had actually slashed Robb’s hand off, with a smirk still playing on his lips. _ He’s very pretty. Why did no one tell me of the beauty of Northern boys sooner?  _ A wave of laughter washed over Loras as he realised the obvious answer to his question, the sad irony. He managed to pass his mirth off as a response to Robb’s continuing struggle for a reply. The strife seemed to exit his face, though, the formulation of a reply displayed endearingly on his profile.  _ Gods, he’s adorable _ . Loras welcomed the sight, thinking he’d want nothing more than to spend his days discovering the ins and outs of Robb’s mind, to stand by him in his struggles and his strife, to coexist beside him. But that simply could not be, and it saddened Loras so.

Still, he never let his hidden upset betray his composure, and he masked it with a raised eyebrow to encourage the boy opposite him.

‘Go on, Robb,’ Lord Eddard chimed in. Robb gave his Father a glance, before returning to Loras gaze.

‘Do you wish to surrender, Stark?’ Loras suggested, eager to find out who Robb was. 

‘The wall will be in tatters before I surrender to you, Ser Loras.’ Robb offered, and it perhaps wasn’t as colossal a burn as Loras might have been expecting, but that didn’t matter to him. So he smiled, and Robb did too, and so did everyone else, with Lord Eddard shaking his head along with his chuckles. Margaery was the exception, with a knowing look on her face.  _ She’s figured it out. Just like she always does _ . Margaery knew that Loras’ words had meaning. She was watching her brother watch Robb; the man she was supposed to be marrying. Loras felt a sudden pang of guilt for his content at the fact that it was he that Robb was looking at with blushing cheeks, and not her. _ No doubt she’ll have something to say to me at some point.  _ Loras gulped.

 

Robb’s embarrassment was probably just a reaction to his own knowledge and everyone else’s that his last comment was not as witty as had been expected of him, but still Loras wondered if the fuschia glaze that danced beneath Robb’s eyes was due to the fact he may have known that Loras was flirting with him. Rather obviously.

 

‘Well then I’d better head North and get to work on destroying that wall, then.’ Loras proposed. An empty threat of course, just a note to end the japes on, but suddenly everyone on the line opposite Loras averted their eyes to the space just behind Loras, and when he heard a cough from behind him, Loras knew it was not just a space. He was reluctant to turn around to face whoever was there- probably just some stablehand's son in want of a few words shared with a royal, but when Bran, Eddard, Catelyn and Robb all cast wide grins across their faces, Loras did turn round. He was unable to question who it could be, however, because as soon as he saw the face of the bearded, long haired man clad in black, Robb had already stormed at the man with outstretched arms, and the two of them were locked into a firm hug.

‘Uncle Benjen!’ Robb called out, prompting his half-brother Jon Snow to run over too, regardless of his place far away from the royal table. Loras suspected that the instruction was only suggested by Lady Stark, who had been visibly wary of the boy for all of the duration of the Tyrell’s stay so far. He could guarantee that none of the family would take offence to his presence, except maybe his Grandmother, but she wasn’t present here right now. And neither was Sansa Stark, who wouldn’t be off with Arya or Rickon, for running wild in the courtyard did not seem to fit in with Loras’ idea of her personality. He was surprised by her absence, for he was quite sure that she might have fallen for him when they’d spoken last.

‘Robb, Jon, how about you introduce me to our King here,’ Benjen started. _ A bold man, to be sure _ .

Loras and his family looked on with beaming faces, waiting for Robb to lead the introductions. Usually they’d all be making a move to greet the man, but when Margaery had started to stand, as was her instinct, their Father looked over at her and shook his head, willing her to sit back down. They knew why- making introductions and other simple courtesies were things Robb would have to deal with when Lord Eddard left for King’s Landing. So they sat there, and Robb cleared his throat.

‘My King, my Queen, my Princes and Princess, this is my uncle, Benjen, ranger of the Night’s Watch.’ Robb said, with a shaky breath. _ He’s anxious, and I don’t blame him. It’s quite beautiful to watch him, but he always looks handsome _ . ‘Uncle Benjen, this is King Mace, and Queen Alerie,’ he paused for a moment to allow acknowledging nods to pass between the two parties. ‘And this is Willas Tyrell, heir to the iron throne,’ Robb continued. 

‘A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.’ Benjen claimed, bowing as he spoke.

‘And you too, Benjen. I’ve heard tales of your valour beyond the wall, it is good to see the hero behind them.’ Willas spoke, releasing the words with eloquence on his tongue. Loras had heard the tales too, and it was those stories that had inspired the long-gone idea he’d once had to join the Night’s Watch. It was fleeting, and had quickly left the forefront of his mind, but whenever he’d been frustrated at his life in King’s Landing, and with those around him, he’d revisit the topic with trepidation. But it was never a serious consideration.

Loras smiled, and while it should have been at Benjen Stark, it was directed more at Robb. The latter beamed back at him, probably relieved he’d started the proceedings. Taking the reciprocation as more of an encouraging sign than perhaps he should have done, he hazarded a wink at Robb, making sure that no one else would witness the gesture before carrying it out. Margaery and the rest of the hall were all focused on Benjen, who was beside himself thanks to Willas’ kind words. For a moment, it felt like it was just Loras and Robb in their own world, a happy world. But Loras’ daring intimation caused Robb to quickly flicker his eyes away, and then Loras was alone in the world, a sad, rejected world.

Still, his eyes didn’t betray Robb, and he watched the boy fight to look in any direction but his, and that hurt Loras, but it also brought him the tiniest glimmer of satisfaction to know that Robb had wanted to be alone with Loras. _ But then I ruined it _ . _ I’m good at that, it would seem _ , Loras reflected, casting his mind back to painful memories of years gone by. He shuddered in an attempt to shake off the scars of his past, and they receded back into the darkest depths of his mind.

‘This is Lor-’ Robb began, and when he realised his mistake, his eyes widened, and he was silent for a few moments. The cacophony of Winterfell’s people was the only uninterrupted flow of sound for those moments, until Robb corrected himself. He didn’t need to, in Loras’ eyes, but the boy was probably mortified from the wink he’d earned from Loras mere seconds ago. And technicalities were important when introductions were involved, so Loras dismissed the use of his Knight’s title. ‘This is  _ Ser _ Loras Tyrell. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I’m sure you’ll have heard.’ Robb said, accentuating the ‘ser.’ It probably meant nothing, perhaps he was just further correcting himself, but the seedling of doubt was already planted in Loras’ mind, and it was growing in the garden of lost hope, ready to fester into an uncontrollable anxiety on his conscience. _ I’ve offended him. I’ll have to talk to him later. I won’t have him be hurt by me. I can’t. _

 

He wandered over to Benjen to shake his hand, and in doing so he found a great struggle in trying to keep from looking over at Robb, who was stood beside him, looking on at the meeting. 

‘Benjen, I too have heard a lot about you. And that thing I said about destroying the wall… It was all in jest. I meant nothing by it.’ Loras chuckled nervously, awakening everyone else to do the same. Even Robb had a smile on his face, a subtle one, and he was looking at the ground, but it was a smile all the same.

‘Have no fear, Ser. I’ve heard plenty of tales of your valour. It’s an honour to be seeing you.’ Benjen countered in a voice more colloquial than Lord Eddard’s, but still with the gritty foundation of the North. Loras nodded at the man, before retiring to stand beside Robb. The sound of Loras’ golden armour against Robb’s faded fortification of steel and iron was so hushed it was like a pin had dropped, but it was there and both of the boys seemed to have felt it, evident in the awkward look exchanged between them. Loras would have welcomed the shielded touch, even if he had longed for something more, had it not been for the apologetic grimace on Robb’s lips. Despite the unfamiliar cold that was looming in the Northern air, warmth seemed to rise from the small space between the Wolf and the Rose even through the heavy walls of their armours, and Loras wondered if Robb felt it too.

 

He could have stood beside him doing nothing but coexist with him for as long as it took for a thousand winters to go by, but just a few moments after Loras stood next to him, Robb saw to his duty, and took Margaery’s hand, whisking her out of her seat and holding her firmly, with one hand spread across her back. She obliged, as she had to, (and seemingly wanted to, but who knew when it came to Loras’ sister?) and wore her beauty nonchalantly as she was led to meet Benjen. Robb was smiling- but only on his lips. His eyes threatened to betray his facade of unadulterated love, for they had turned to cold blue pools that tried to scream out for help, but to no avail. _ I can see you, Robb. It’s okay. I can see you,  _ Loras called out to him, silently. Lord and Lady Stark saw their son’s repressed discomfort too, offering each other sympathetic but nostalgic smiles. Surely this day served as a reminder of the beginnings of their own marriage.

Instead of making his sadness known, Robb had to get on with it,  like he’d have to be getting on with a lot of things in the near future.

 

‘And this,’ Robb said, trying to fortify his nerves with a forged layer of  pride added to his tone. ‘Is my betrothed, the Princess Margaery Tyrell.’ Robb guided her to the place in front of his uncle, who knelt before Margaery, taking her hand from Robb and placing a kiss to it.

‘My Princess,’ Benjen said. ‘If Robb fails as your husband in any way, send him to me on the wall and I’ll see to it that he sets himself right,’ he joked. Margaery and the rest of the Starks and Tyrells gathered began to laugh, a harmony of high pitched giggles and low, strong chuckles. Even Jon Snow, who was hovering just behind his Lord Father with a sullen look on his face was laughing, and when he looked over at Loras, the two of them nodded at each other, in what was probably the first communication they’d shared in the few days that Loras had been at Winterfell.

‘I’ll send him right your way if needs be, but that shouldn’t be an issue seeing as he’s been so chivalrous.. So far.’ Margaery’s witty remark was stapled with a cunning look at Robb, and another wave of mirth resonated through the crowd, and a tsunami of jealousy washed over Loras, though the only evidence was the clenching of his jaw.

‘Anyway, I’d better be off, I need to catch up with Jon,’ Benjen said after the racket had died down, and he was halfway down the hall with Jon Snow and his black feathered cloak not far behind. 

Everyone had already taken their places back at the table, but this time Loras sat on the other side of Margaery and next to Willas, in the hopes that his eldest brother could offer a distraction from Robb, who remained at Loras’ diagonal. 

  
  


‘I think it’s time the announcement was made. It’s getting late.’ Loras’ Father suggested. Loras had been dreading this since he’d realised how much he’d began to care for Robb in such a short time. When the smallfolk of Winterfell found out about the impending wedding, they’d go mad with excitement, Loras was sure. The idea of a royal living amongst them was sure to be monumental in the North ever since King Torrhen Stark had bent the knee all those centuries ago. At least it wasn’t like to be as overwhelming as the reaction of King’s Landing, where there had been countless feasts amongst the smallfolk. The Tyrells were adored in the capital, Loras knew, and so were the Starks, as was any friend to Loras’ Father, the King. After all, it could have been one of the last remaining Baratheons or even the bastard of house Bolton that Margaery could have been marrying, and that wouldn’t do at all. The streets would have been overrun with riots, Willas had said when Loras had enquired why Margaery would be travelling so far from home.

 

But that announcement had been made before Loras had met Robb, before he’d looked into his eyes and found a place to be himself, before he’d started relapsing into his old habit of loving the wrong people. Things were different now.

 

‘I quite agree. I think it’s only right that Robb here tells your people of he and my daughter’s news.’ the King said, as if it wasn’t a big thing at all.  _ Don’t do that to him, Father. He’s tense enough already. _ In that moment over all, Loras’ heart really did go out to Robb. In more ways than one.

Robb began to stand, much to the delight of the expectant faces around him. Loras was not one of those faces, for he wore his concern more openly, like Bran who was sat at his other diagonal. The Knight of Flowers’ eyes bore into Robb’s, offering the latter every shred of understanding he could give. In all honesty, Loras was glad it was his eyes he’d looked to for solace, and not his sister’s, but that was not the main focus right now. When Robb still hadn’t looked away from Loras, although no one seemed to have noticed, he raised both of his eyebrows encouragingly so as to stop Robb from drawing attention to the lingering stare between the two of them. Ser Loras would have wanted to look at Robb looking at him all day if he could, but for now it was not the safest option.

 

The great hall remained loud and oblivious until Robb summoned the smallfolk’s attention with the sound of a fork against glass. It echoed from wall to wall until all conversations were led to a standstill, and all eyes were on Robb. _ No pressure, then _ .

‘My people, I would like to begin by thanking you all for joining me, my family and your King, Queen and their children here today.’ Robb’s breath was shaky, but the people of Winterfell were patient, it seemed, and they waited to hear his words. ‘We’re gathered here for one reason in particular, and it is one that I am sure you’ll all be as delighted to hear as I was. It is with great delight that I tell you I am to marry the Princess Margaery an-’ before Robb could finish his speech, there was an uproar of applause from the audience. The heir to Winterfell was grinning properly now, obviously proud of himself for getting through the task. He stood looking out at his people, and took in the joyful scene laid out before him,  and exchanged looks with Maester Luwin and Winterfell’s castellan, whose name was Rodrik Cassel if Loras remembered correctly. Loras was proud of Robb too, even if his hidden upset alone over the betrothal was immense enough to contest the cheer of this hall full of people. 

 

Margaery rose to stand beside her husband to be, and took his hand, raising it in the air. Robb did not object, although he appeared to be unable to bring himself to look Loras’ sister in the eye. _ Is it so wrong that I relish these miniscule signs of Robb being dissatisfied by Margaery? I’m supposed to be happy for him _ , Loras mused, tapping his tankard down on the table inaudibly. He averted his eyes from the subject of his affections, for it simply hurt too much to watch the way he was still holding someone else’s hand. His own sister, no less.  _ How can I be if I’m not the one whose hand he’s holding? Gods, I’m a selfish, undisciplined fool. Look at me sat here, Lord Commander of my Father’s Kingsguard, a Prince, and still I find something to be unhappy about. In the midst of all this joy, too. _

 

‘Thank you, everyone. I am sure you’ll take Margaery to your hearts as I already have done.’ He wrapped up his speech, but Loras knew he was lying. It satisfied everyone else well enough, with one final round of applause resulting from the room. When Robb sat back down, he earned pats on the back from the King and Lord Eddard.

‘That’s your first address out of the way, Robb. People will love you as their Lord when I’m gone. And you Margaery, they love you already.’ Lord Eddard said from the head of the table. That meant a great deal to Robb, Loras could tell from the first genuine smile he’d flashed since making the speech.

‘Thank you, good-father,’ said Margaery. Lord Eddard was obviously touched by the gesture, and Loras was once again reminded that Margaery always knew exactly how to play a situation.

 

It didn’t take long for everyone to get back to their own conversations, and Margaery seemed preoccupied by Sansa, who had just shown her face in the great hall.  _ Sansa’s a pretty girl. No wonder Margaery’s taken to her. She likes the pretty girls as much as I like the pretty boys _ , Loras thought, watching his sister and Sansa laughing together like there was no one else in the hall. _ No wonder the Stark girl isn’t hovering around me as much as she has been lately _ . The whole irony of the situation would have been funny to Loras if it didn’t accost he and his sister so much. After watching Robb flicker between mouthing words across the tables in an attempt at a conversation with Theon Greyjoy, who was probably on his fifth tankard of Arbor Gold by that point, and dipping into the political talk of the King, Lord Eddard and their wives for the best part of a few minutes, Loras took the opportunity to rescue Robb from his obvious boredom. 

‘Hey.’ Loras said, almost whispering. He didn’t know why he was trying to be so secretive. ‘Robb,’ he called again, when Robb didn’t react. On this second attempt at garnering his attention, Robb turned his head too quickly, causing him to wince. ‘Careful.’ Loras warned, concerned. The Young Wolf quirked the corners of his lips into a smile, and it was only a slight one, but it meant something to both of them. Loras would take one of Robb’s small but genuine smiles over one of his forged grins any day. ‘You did really well just then.’ Loras praised, and he could think of a million other commendable things he could lament about concerning Robb. In response, Robb chuckled in disbelief.

‘I mean it.’ Loras replied in an attempt to halt the other boy’s self doubt. Their eyes clung onto each other for a moment too long; two lost boys with an unwanted abundance of responsibilities being thrown at them with full force. Loras would have sacrificed his shield to protect Robb any day.

‘I could barely get the words out. You heard the weakness in my voice, I know you did. They all did.’ Robb sighed. _ I only heard the weakness because I was focused on you more than I should have been _ , Loras thought, but didn’t give voice to the dangerous consideration.

‘It was your first speech. Everything has been thrown at you at once, and your people are kind. They’re patient, they’ll give you time to find your bearings. Give it time.’ Loras tried to reassure the boy opposite him but as soon as he said the last sentence, he realised that that was probably all Robb had heard for a while. _ Give it time. How original. Way to go, you fool _ . ‘I’m sorry… You’ve probably had enough of that phrase.’ Loras conceded, for he would do anything at this stage to ease Robb’s nerves.  _ Pathetic _ .

‘You didn’t know. It’s okay.’ Robb fronted, but it didn’t convince Loras. Not in the slightest.

‘No, it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all, I haven’t known you for all that long but I can tell already that you deserved a chance to live your youth without pressure. And now here you are. You deserve better, Robb.’ Loras whispered so as to avoid receiving disapproving looks from those around him. Loras hadn’t noticed, but both he and Robb had leaned forward further into the table so much that Loras could feel Robb’s warm breath. Even though it was freezing outside, Robb provided all the warmth Loras could ever need, and his breath smelt of bonfires and the arbor gold he’d been drinking in moderation throughout the night. His eyes felt like home, and when he saw the look of appreciation in them, Loras knew that Robb had needed to hear that for a while.

‘And here I am.’ Robb replied, as if that was all he could say, all he was allowed to say. 

‘Yeah.’ Loras said with a sigh.

‘Yeah…’ Robb echoed, dragging out the one word. ‘What about you?’ He asked, out of the blue.

‘What about me?’ Loras asked, flummoxed. He had leant up from their uncomfortable position as Robb had done just a few seconds before, probably after realising that it might have been too close in the opinion of everyone else around them. They all seemed invested in their own ramblings, but that was no consolation for Loras, for even though he was slipping into the abyss of surely unrequited love, or unrequited like, or whatever the gods wanted to call this, he had to regard his feelings with trepidation, because unwanted attention was rife in this hall alone, and rumours of a knight, a prince no less, and an heir of a noble house would spread like wildfire through the seven kingdoms and beyond. As much as it would hurt him to do so, Loras decided then that he’d have to be secretive of his own feelings. And Robb would too, if he ever thought of Loras in the same light.  _ Ha! That’s funny. It’s funny and it’s never going to happen _ .

‘You know full well what kind of responsibilities I’ve got being pushed on me,’ Robb reminded, drawing a nod of the head from Loras. ‘But I know nothing about you. Tell me about the struggles of a Knight, Loras.’ Robb instructed, beaming. Loras swore his own heart must have been audibly beating right now, and his emotions were aglow with pride and an uneasy satisfaction that he hadn’t felt to such an extent in a while. _ That’s part of what being a knight does to you, Robb. _

‘I’ll tell you what, Robb. How about you take me to a place where I can teach you some of my fighting skills, and you can tell me about you and I’ll tell you about me,’ Loras proposed, perhaps a little too eagerly. 

‘Deal. I know the perfect place. I’d tell you I’ll destroy you, but I’ve already told you I’m a decent fighter at best.’ Robb recounted. Loras chuckled, the weight of his armour moving with him in his mirth. _ Oh, but you’re already destroying me, handsome boy. If only you knew, you’ve got me fighting a war against myself _ , Loras thought as he watched Robb laughing along, with so much beauty that could have released the most harmonious of songs from fools far and wide. _ And I’m the biggest fool, surely _ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading this!  
> if you have any feedback or predictions, leave a comment, i'd greatly appreciate it.  
> if you wanna follow me on twitter, my username is @lcrastyreli  
> -jess :)


	6. That liquid guilt is on my lips,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has no idea what to wear until Margaery shows up at her chambers without invitation.

When Sansa awoke from her blissful slumber, she opened her eyes to the dewy invasivity of the fading summer’s sun. It was all too familiar after all these years, but still, she defensively raised her hands to shield herself from the blinding glimmer of her window. Sometimes the warmth was a welcome feeling, and it would be much appreciated when winter had arrived, but for now it was too intense, so much so that Sansa decided she would not be able to get back to sleep, and withdrew the covers from around her face.

Beneath her feet, even through the carpet strewn across the stone, the floor was cold despite the window’s glow. Sansa braved the chill as it surged through her feet and into her brain, triggering an abrupt awakening into the morning. It was still morning, she could tell, and it was earlier than it usually was when she surfaced from her sleep. She shrugged and put it down to her eagerness to embrace the day. And what a day it promised to be- Sansa had learned in just a short time that a day with Margaery Tyrell was never a boring one.The two of them had been swiftly building on their friendship, and with Jeyne leaving for the Winter Town’s new stronghold soon, Sansa had been fearing what maladies the plague of loneliness might have brought her when her best friend left Winterfell. Margaery was only just sixteen, and Sansa almost fourteen, though neither of the seemed to be too concerned with their differences in ages. Sansa had barely noticed, if she was to be honest.

She felt older when she was with Margaery. The two of them had spoken about all manner of things; things that Sansa would never have been able to talk to Arya about, or even Jeyne. She did occasionally feel the slight pang of guilt rise in her stomach when she’d silently favoured Margaery over Jeyne, but her remorse was set aside when she remembered that Jeyne would be leaving soon. Sansa would miss her terribly, but the Winter Town was not too far away, so they’d still be able to see each other every so often.

As she perused her selection of gowns, her mind was flooded with wonder over what the day ahead of her held. Margaery had mentioned hawking, and Sansa’s heart had leapt at the idea of partaking in such a royal activity. But she’d had to cast that idea aside, for the North was too cold for the birds to soar.

_ They’re all too boring, all these plain colours, simple embroidery. Nothing here is going to compare to Margaery’s dress, I know it _ . Sansa’s frown dominated the lower half of her face, and it was difficult for her to repress the boredom she had always found in Winterfell. She was grateful for her comfortable life in her castle, but she was simply illusioned, blinded by the glamour of the Southern lands. She hoped Margaery was ready for the onslaught of questions Sansa was ready to fire at her. She hoped she’d take joy in providing long-awaited answers, but that was merely wishful thinking. _ She’s the Princess, for heaven’s sake _ .

Much to her dismay, Sansa’s frantic filing through her modest collection of silks had provided no joy. She sighed, and dumped herself down back onto her bed, defeated.  _ They’ll never be good enough for Margaery _ , she realised, frowning.

All hope had just about been lost when a gentle knock on the door lifted Sansa back to her senses.

‘Sansa?’ Margaery called. Sansa could recognise the melodic lilt to her voice easily, and she quickly moved to tidy the slight mess that she’d made in trying to find a suitable dress.

‘Just a minute!’ Sansa called back, being careful not to sound harsh.

The red haired girl paused for a moment, in what was potentially the first moment of stillness she’d felt since waking up. With one hand threading a nearby hairbrush through her hair, the other attempted to smooth out the creases that the night had left all down the length of her nightdress. Then, she simply took a breath to catch up with how hectic the day was already, and ambled gracefully towards the door, towards Margaery. She opened it with ease, and Margaery wasted no time in pulling Sansa towards her into a soothing hug, and when she did so, Sansa felt her anxieties melt into a warm tranquility. It couldn’t have been nearing noon and Margaery was already perfectly outfitted in a silk dress of a pale blue. It was similar to the one she had been wearing when she first arrived at Winterfell, but with a slight variation in the way the ivory roses shrouded the collar. Beautiful and practical, Sansa noticed, though of course she wasn’t surprised by how well thought-out the Tyrell outfits always were. Margaery’s arms stayed wrapped around Sansa’s back, and Sansa took the opportunity to sink her hands further around the crease of the Princess’ own back. When she breathed her in, she was met with a pleasant rose scent, and it was then that Sansa felt grateful that she’d at least washed herself the day before. She didn’t smell half as endearing as Margaery, that much she was sure of, but the fading scent of orchids wasn’t half as bad as the stench of being unwashed.  _ That’s something _ , Sansa supposed. The perfumed candles dotted around Sansa’s chamber helped, contributing an ambient glow into the already bright room.

Margaery was the one to break the hug, and as she did so, she let her hands wander slowly across Sansa’s back. It was nice, Sansa thought, even if it did mean she now had to face the almost impossible task of concealing the heat displayed on her cheeks. Alas, it didn’t work, and she felt the warmth creep across her face. Internally, she was fighting herself in a bid to repress the way Margaery’s touch made her feel. But on the outside, it seemed not to work, evident in the smirk that formed on Margaery’s face, and the way mischief twinkled in her eyes as they widened ever so slightly. The moment was fleeting, but it was there, only terminated on Sansa’s words.

‘How did you manage to find my chambers?’ she asked. The Princess had already made her way into the room, and she was looking round at everything from the stoked stone fireplace, which was crackling and spitting ashes at the iron barrier, to the unmade bed, her eyes, still devious, drifting upon the length of it, from the cluster at the end of the mattress that had been formed by the soft pink blanket, to the two pillows of the same hue which lay naturally on the opposite side. Sansa hovered by the doorway still, her eyes tracing Margaery’s movements. _ She moves so gracefully and with such confidence. And they call me the elegant wolf.  _ Admiration was sewn across Sansa’s face.

‘Would you rather I was elsewhere?’ Margaery answered, or rather, non-answered. A stabbing feeling rammed into Sansa’s heart when she noted the hurt expression on the other girl’s face.

‘Oh, no I wasn’t… I didn’t mean it like that I’m terribly sor-’ Sansa flushed, making her way over to the Princess.

‘Shhh shh, I was just joking. I know what you meant, Sansa. You can relax around me, you know.’ Margaery assured, with her face mere inches away from Sansa’s. Sansa was tall for her age, and while Margaery Tyrell was not a short girl, the Stark girl appeared to tower over her, yet somehow the difference in height made Margaery’s allure even more admirable.

 

The Princess’ words had served their purpose, and Sansa felt herself relax into the comfort of her company, but there was an undeniable truth lying somewhere in the back of Sansa’s mind. It was easy to relax around Margaery, Sansa had willingly acknowledged, but she couldn’t help but feel as though she still had something to prove to the Princess, as accommodating as she was.  _ Or something _ , Sansa thought, without allowing it to trouble her further.

 

Sansa didn’t know what to say, so she offered a simple thank you paired with a beaming face, and it seemed to suffice. ‘Margaery.’ she added, after a comfortably brief silence.

‘Sansa,’ the other girl replied, timing her response perfectly. Margaery was good at that, Sansa had noticed. Whenever she spoke, she did so in a way that filled the air with clouds of secrecy and possibility, so intimate that it felt almost unreal. Sansa, of course, envied this greatly. 

‘We have a crisis. Or rather I have a crisis.’ Said Sansa, who was definitely over exaggerating. 

‘Your crisis is my crisis. Do tell me, Sansa,’ Margaery instructed, setting herself down on the bed, her legs crossing gracefully. Another thing about Margaery was that she always sounded genuine, and within her tone, the weight danced with the levity, making for an almost celestial haze to coat the walls of the room. It was almost enough to send Sansa to sleep, or probably anyone for that matter, and it was a struggle to maintain focus. That along with the aforementioned crisis had Sansa seeing stars.

‘You see, I have dresses. I have many dresses. Almost too many. But the thing is, they all feel too plain. And now you’re here and your dress is beautiful like you, and none of mine feel… adequate.’ Sansa lamented, using more hand gestures than she thought possible. This seemed to entertain Margaery, who had ever so slightly lifted the corners of her mouth in her amusement. For a moment there was nothing else, and there was only the prolonged silence between the two of them, while their eyes burned against each other, and Sansa was not afraid of anything. However new it was, Sansa decided that this was the best kind of friendship she’d had since she could remember.

When Margaery rose off the bed to stand, she did so in a manner that was uncharacteristically sudden, though it was hidden by her ever-prevalent grace. She waltzed over to the wardrobe, and shifted the stubborn doors open to reveal the array of plainly-hued gowns that Sansa had been obsessively filing through earlier.

‘I see. They’re all gorgeous, a little muted no doubt, but we can make this work. I know it.’ She said, lifting a lilac dress out of the cluttered wardrobe. Her words brought a little clarity to Sansa, who now firmly believed that the problem could be solved after all. She stood next to Margaery, trying to see what she was seeing, trying to make the clockwork of her brain work the sorry garments into beautiful, extravagant works of art. It didn’t work in her mind, but as she watched Margaery knitting a masterpiece in her own, Sansa’s hope was illuminated where before the clothing had dulled it.

After a few minutes of intense thinking, Margaery’s eyes widened beyond belief as she struck upon something at the very end of the rail.  _ When Sansa saw it too, she was hit by a wave of memory. I’ve been looking for that for so long! It must be fate that Margaery just found it. That means I have to wear it _ , she gushed silently. It was a dark blue velvet textured dress that Sansa had sewn herself to fit her perfectly, even in her adolescence. The blue was of a shade that made it almost look black. It was dark without draining the life out of the room, it was simple, save for the silver diamond shapes emblazoned along the full length of the arms. True colours of the North, of the Starks. The dress was showstopping, nothing less.

‘I think this might be the one. It’s beautiful.’ Margaery gasped. There was a dazzled glow fastened on her face, and then Sansa wondered why she hadn’t worn the dress before. Still, she figured that there was no harm in milking the approval.

‘It isn’t too dark, is it?’ She asked.

‘That’s part of the appeal. It’s dark yes, but these silver accents along the arms really give it character.’ Margaery traced along the outline of the glistening shapes with one perfectly shaped fingernail, occasionally looking up at Sansa as she spoke with her eyes glimmering like gold. ‘The neckline… It’s so sophisticated, it’s perfect for you. You’ll look every bit a Lady of the North in this. Maybe we could line the collar with a wolf pelt? Or embroider it on the back so it stays in place?’ Margaery exclaimed.  _ She’s quite a sight to see when she’s so excited like this. Usually she’s so calm. I like this side of her. _

‘You sound like a seamstress, you know.’ Sansa said, beaming at Margaery.

The latter’s senses seemed to perk up at that.

‘It’s funny you say that,’ she began, perfect brows furrowed slightly. ‘A girl told me that once. We were sitting in a field at home with lilies all around us and I was telling her about a new dress of mine, and she told me she thought I must have been a seamstress in another life. Her own Mother was a seamstress too, for my Mother. I am very fascinated by dresses, it’s true,’ she recalled pensively. It looked as if she was in a different place, in that field with the lilies around her, living the memory. She looked almost melancholic, with hidden words behind her eyes. As curious as Sansa was about who this girl was, she asked no questions about her, not just because she feared upsetting Margaery, but also because she couldn’t help but feel jealous for some selfish reason. So she asked her about the very elusive mention of another life. She’d heard murmurs of it in the North, but not at Winterfell. There was no place for it in the Sept she favoured, or in the Godswood her Father and siblings always preferred.  _ I wonder if Margaery believes in all of that.     _

‘Another life?’ She asked from the other side of the room, reaching into her drawer. She’d had an excellent idea for this dress. Margaery would love it, she was sure.

‘She was interested in all of that. I never truly understood it but I was happy if it made her happy. We’ve always stuck to the seven in my family.’ She shrugged nonchalantly, trying to pass the memory off like it was nothing. But Sansa had already seen that it was a conflicting subject for Margaery, so she just smiled at her reassuringly.

‘What’s that?’ Asked the Princess, upon noticing the silver in Sansa’s hands.

‘I think they might look nice on the dress. See? Perhaps on the buttons.’ Sansa countered, holding up polished silver direwolf brooches. She made sure she always had a plentiful stock, she was the one tasked with embroidering her family’s outfits, after all. She kept a small amount of fish brooches too for her Mother, and the rest of Lady Catelyn’s family for whenever they came to visit. _ I’m running out. I’ll have to visit Mikken soon and buy some more.  _

‘Oh I see, yes I think that’ll work. You’ll have to sew it on though, I trust you with it more than I do myself,’ Margaery giggled, and Sansa couldn’t help but hear the echo of  _ I trust you, I trust you, I trust you _ run circles about her heart. It meant a great deal to her- that much she knew- but with every moment spent with the Princess, she felt a little more confused. Margaery was her friend, a good friend in fact, but Sansa wondered if she perhaps wanted a little more than friendship with Margaery.  _ That can’t happen. Just a week ago I was in love with Loras, I can’t like Margaery like that. Not now. And especially not when she marries Robb.  _ Her heart was on fire with the sudden realisation of just how much she like Margaery. It hadn’t reached a summit yet, Sansa knew that, but it was enough so that when the Princess walked over to her and took her hand, Sansa felt her pulse rise as high as the ceiling.  _  Stop. I can’t. I can’t. _

 

She held her arms out to take the dress after loosening her hand from Margaery’s and reached for a needle. Careful not to end up stabbing the Princess of Westeros, she set herself down on her bed, laying the dress down on a pillow on her lap so that she could get the stitches accurate. The Rose simply looked on, studying The Wolf’s actions intently, and even through her concentration, The Wolf noticed, and she was unable to help her eyes flickering at Margaery’s over her shoulder. ‘Made you look,’ Margaery boasted.  _ You make it easy _ . _ And then you make it difficult.  _ Sansa shook her head, but she was unable to stifle her smile. She got back to her work, and concentrated again. ‘So you’re one of those people who sticks out their tongue when concentrating,’ she heard Margaery say. Sansa was quite sure there was a part of Margaery that might like her in the same way. It was evident in the way her eyes trailed from Sansa’s eyes to her lips, and the way she always looked mischievous when it came to Sansa. _ But it might just be wishful thinking. And besides, we can’t do anything about it. She can’t marry me instead of Robb. No one would allow it, not Mother, not Father, nor the King or Queen. The realm would rebel.     _

Sansa became aware of herself, and lured her tongue back into its rightful place. ‘So I am,’ she said, before glancing at the dress. Her eyes lit up in her accomplishment. ‘Oh, look! It’s finished!’ she exclaimed, holding the dress out for Margaery to see.

‘Sansa it’s beautiful! Truly, it’ll look wonderful on you. You’ll turn heads for sure,’ Margaery winked like it wasn’t a big deal. And then she smirked, because she’d noticed how Sansa blushed, and how she struggled to find words. Margaery’s hand reached for her shoulder, and to Sansa, it felt enigmatic. As typical as it was- and it was very typical- Sansa let herself tense against the Princess’ hand.

‘No need to be so tense, Sansa,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘Do you want me to leave the room while you get changed?’ She asked, as if she was daring Sansa to surprise her. But Sansa couldn’t- because she didn’t know if she’d be able to resist Margaery, and she was nervous. The room was sparkling with possibility, and Sansa wanted so much to accept the possibility of she and Margaery, but for now she was scared of what everything meant.  _ If I’m going to like a girl I need to be steady. I can’t be too fast or else I’ll ruin the alliance. Oh no. Robb.  _ Sansa refused to let herself think about that. It was too much to process in the morning when she wasn’t even dressed yet.

‘Um, I think so. Yes please.’ She said, trying to sound as stable as possible. Her eyes shied away from Margaery, but still the Princess saw right through her.

‘Okay. I’ll wait for you in the Great Hall, and we can get some breakfast together.’ Margaery proposed, and pressed the softest of kisses to Sansa’s blushing cheek. It was like the clouds had dropped from the sky to skim across her face, like the fire had leapt from the furnace onto her heart, spilling ashes and embers into her stomach. Sansa stood there for a moment, unsure of what exactly she was meant to do in a situation like this.  _ She’s just being friendly. She meant nothing by it _ . But Sansa’s view was challenged when she saw that Margaery was just hovering by the door, challenging Sansa to look at her, to give her something. What that something was, Sansa wasn’t entirely certain, for she’d never even been kissed by a boy on the cheek, let alone a girl. Joffrey was the closest she’d been to any sort of romance, but now he was just a bitter memory, and for that she was grateful. Sansa vowed to herself to never make the regretful mistake of falling for someone so easily every night since the Lannisters had left, yet here she was, doomed to fall for entirely the wrong sort of person all over again.  _ Margaery’s heart is golden as the Tyrell rose, but I can’t like her. It seems I’ll have to have enough restraint for the two of us _ .

 

When she turned to face the door again, Margaery had disappeared, and Sansa heard the rhythm of her footsteps fade away into the hallway, though her confusion was still lurking in the room like the smell of the Princess’ perfume.

As the fabric of her nightclothes fell to the floor, the mellow warmth from the sun danced across the pale skin of her back. She was eager to don her newly improved dress, to impress those already waiting in the great hall,  _ and Margaery _ , so she wasted no time at all in scrambling to coat herself in her own armour.  _ My brothers have their metal, and I’ll have my velvet _ . 

The sight in the ornate mirror upon the wall shocked Sansa. She’d always been told she was beautiful, countless times by the people of Winterfell; her family, countless times by the sons of Stark bannermen, and once or twice by Joffrey. And now that was over, and she was admiring someone else. 

 

The dress fit Sansa perfectly as she knew it would, as Margaery had said it would. It was as if she was wearing every colour in the rainbow, with the luminous orange of her hair sparring against the azure of her eyes and the navy of her gown. Sansa was not afraid to admit she thought she looked quite beautiful, and she knew everyone else would think the same.  _ There’s something missing though. I need a wolf pelt, I want to wear the direwolf as Margaery and Willas and Garlan and Loras wear the rose.  _ So off she went, vacating her chambers, but not before one final glance in the mirror. 

 

Her path led her to the chambers of her Mother and Father, which seemed to be empty. Sansa wasn’t surprised, everyone was likely to be down in the hall by now.  _ But not Arya and Rickon, I’ll suppose they’re off somewhere doing god knows what. Maybe Arya won’t be so distant from me if she sees me looking like a Stark.  _ Sansa knew where to find wolf pelts. Her Father was never without one round his neck, and every day Robb seemed to be growing in Lord Eddard’s shadow. The forests around Winterfell never lacked for wolves, and while they were nothing of the splendour of the direwolf, they were dutiful, and they were necessities in the colder days.  _ Maybe I’ll take Margaery to meet Lady today.  _

She reached into the tall wardrobe and slung a beige fur around her neck, and departed for the Great Hall. Her walk was peaceful, and she encountered close to no one on her journey except for a flurry of servants, but she welcomed the peace. It seemed that all she’d heard for the past few days was the endless cacophony of chatter over things she knew nothing about. She’d heard talk of the Boltons, and her spine had turned to ice, but she still hadn’t troubled her Father with asking about them. In truth, she was terrified of what insecurity the knowledge might bring, and any mention of the Boltons always made her feel like the little girl she’d been trying so hard to leave behind.  _ They speak of Ramsay the same way they speak of Joffrey _ . 

 

Her arrival at the doors of the Great Hall snapped her away from her fear-mongering thoughts, and she was ready to show everyone her dress. She pushed the door open lightly, and walked along the hard floor as gracefully as she’d always been taught, and she felt as if she was Rhaenyra Targaryen, or Elia Martell gliding through the Red Keep to meet her King, as if a Queen was supposed to feel. Loras and Robb were not present on the dais, she saw, and she had no doubts they’d be exchanging japes somewhere in a forest, but still it wounded her pride that her older brother wasn't there to see her in her Stark garments, and that Loras wasn’t there to tell her she looked beautiful. But there was a stunned audience waiting for her, and she wore a smile like a trophy. She drew closer to her family, and with every loud clash of heel against the floor, another pair of eyes were on her. Princess Leonette first, the dainty looking wife of Ser Garlan who had tried to teach Sansa to play the harp. It didn’t go as well as either of them had hoped, but Leonette had been patient and forgiving, and for that, Sansa admired her. Ser Garlan the Gallant himself followed, brown hair cropped short  in a neat fashion. Sansa hadn’t seen much of him since he’d been at Winterfell, though that didn’t upset Sansa too much. Long hair had always been Sansa’s preference, especially lately. To Garlan’s left sat Willas Tyrell, who was perhaps the most humble of all of the Tyrells. He always seemed to speak in such a respectable manner, to everyone Sansa’s Father to Osha the serving girl. He and Bran had swiftly began to enjoy eachother’s company, and that was always a good thing. It was clear to see that Bran had felt left out ever since his fall. _It’s good he finally has someone he can talk to._ The King and Queen were dazzled too, evident in their approving smiles. Sansa’s Mother and Father were the image of pride sat at the head of the table, and Sansa watched Lady Catelyn move to whisper in Lord Eddard’s ear. He just nodded, never breaking his eyes away from Sansa, who was just meters away by now. Sansa had always known her Mother was proud of her in everything she did, but it was a rare sight to see Lord Eddard so in awe of her. He’d always favoured Arya in Sansa’s view. _It’s because she looks like Aunt Lyanna, and I have more of a Tully demeanor._ Still, that didn’t seem to matter right now, because here she was, draped in the colours of the North, wearing them the way she had always been destined to.

Margaery sat next to her own Mother, looking as radiant as she did when Sansa had seen her not twenty minutes ago. Her eyes were wild, and he hands patted the vacant seat next to her, beckoning Sansa to join her. She complied, folding herself onto the chair, and sent her acknowledges out to every direction on the table.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ she curtsied. 

‘Only just.’ Bran mocked, quickly. Sansa pulled a face at him, knowing he only meant to jest.

‘My King, my Queen, I do apologise for being so late. I had a lot of trouble in deciding what to wear,’ she understated. They didn’t need to know how she’d trialled herself earlier, how she’d slung her bland fabrics across the floor like an amateur’s carpet. Margaery’s smile increased, for she knew of how much the matter had disturbed Sansa’s peace.

‘There is no need for an apology with a gorgeous dress like that. You look marvellous, my Lady,’ said the King. It meant a lot to Sansa to hear it from a man of such status, but it had felt better when Margaery had said the same thing earlier.

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ she replied, honestly. She saw that the King had stacked three plates full of bacon and eggs and black pudding, and he seemed to have finished them all with no struggle. Sansa thanked all of the Gods that Rickon wasn’t there to pass comment on the sight, for who knew what trouble  _ that  _ would have caused

‘Sansa,’ Lord Eddard called in a gruff voice.

‘Yes, Father?’ she called back, leaning over to him. Her arm crossed with Margaery’s in the process, and the Princess didn't recoil, but rather pressed further against Sansa’s velvet coated arm. Margaery carried warmth while Sansa lay draped in the cold, but the juxtaposition was welcomed by both of them.

‘You look a real Lady. I like the wolf bit,’ her Father said proudly. Sansa knew he’d like the dress, but it was always nice to hear him confirm it.

‘It’s gorgeous, Sansa. I remember when you first started making it, I did wonder when I’d finally see you wear it,’ Lady Catelyn gushed, delicately taking a bite of her scrambled eggs. 

Before Sansa could reply, though, Margaery leant across the table too, a look of awe in her eyes.

‘Wait you made this one too? Tell me there’s an end to your talents somewhere at least.’ She said, a theatrical melody hanging onto her every word. The Princess’ bold comment drew a breath of laughter from Sansa, though it may have been down to the nerves more than anything. Any unbounded joy from a compliment from Margaery was well worth holding on to.

‘Oh, there is. You’ll find it one day,’ Sansa said. 

‘Maybe,’ Margaery said, holding the prospect of their future just above Sansa’s nose. A moment of silence between the two of them passed, for everyone else had already drifted back into their own conversations. ‘Anyway, I got you some berries. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I have never in my life met anyone who doesn’t enjoy berries. In fact, I might have to lock you in a dungeon in King’s Landing if you’re the only one who doesn't like them. There’s some cream on them too, just in case they’re too intense.’ Margaery said, pulling the bowl of sweet berries over to the two of them.

‘Thank you,’ Sansa replied, grinning. It was true, she loved berries, but as she broke her fast on a juicy strawberry, all she thought about was the fact that Margaery seemed to know every nook of her mind already. ‘You know me so well already, Margaery.’

‘It’s hardly difficult when it comes to you,’ Margaery teased, grinning as she held a blueberry between her teeth, unleashing a wave of blue over them. 

‘What does that mean?!’ Sansa played the act of confusion, though truth be told, she was hardly surprised. She’d never excelled in keeping her cards close to her chest. The Lannisters had even said so, and for the longest time, Sansa had thought that it was her fault that her betrothal to Joffrey had crumbled into the soil. Of course, everyone at Winterfell had tried their hardest to lift her spirits at the time, but there had been nothing that could have lifted her away from the guilt she had felt. 

 

But now she was okay. She was happy, she might even say, and with her fourteenth nameday fast approaching, there was no telling what might happen next.  _ Especially with the Tyrells on our side. The Boltons won’t even think of attacking us.  _ And with that in mind, she beamed, as if it was her own private taunt against all the evil in the world.

 

‘It’s by no means a bad thing, but you’re very easy to figure out. For me, anyway, but I am experienced in that sort of thing, granted,’ Margaery boasted. ‘What are you smiling about?’ she added.

 

‘Nothing. I just like being here, that’s all,’ Sansa offered. It was true, but Margaery probably wasn’t ready to bear the weight of Sansa’s worries.

Margaery hummed. ‘I’ll get it out of you one day. Don’t forget I’m going to be here for a good while, Sansa,’ she warned playfully, her hands gesturing wildly. 

 

_ Good. I want you here for my good times and my bad. _

  
  


__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, i'm sorry it's been so long since my last update. things at school are getting hectic and there'd been some writer's block, but im slowly getting there.  
> once again, thank you so much for reading, and if you have any feedback, please comment!  
> -jess :)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you ever so much for reading!!  
> this is my first proper go at writing fanfic, so i apologise if you feel that i could have handled certain things better  
> and if that is the case, then feel free to leave a comment explaining your thoughts!  
> -jess  
> also!! if you wanna follow me on twitter, im @lcrastyreli :)


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